Lotus nodded to me. I thought I saw fear on the jiangshi’s face. That made me feel better. If Lotus was scared, I could be too.
“Flauros, Duke of Hell,” I said, as respectfully as I could while concealing weakness. “First King of Mankind, Lord of Institutions, Master of Laws, I beseech you.”
“You do?” Flauros asked curiously, his voice echoing sonorously. “Nicholas, you have been freed from my service. I am truly flattered you called me back, but I am quite confused.” The demon crossed his arms, a comical gesture given his current form, but one that gave him the appearance of an odd human. “You, of all people, know the consequences of this summoning.”
I nodded.
“Well,” he said, dismissively waving one of his claws. “With that in mind, beseech away.”
So, I told him. I told him about the trip to Texas and about the plot against him. I told him about the intrigues and subsequent destruction of the Lyndale Coven, though I omitted the fact that Amalfi and I had killed his Hellhounds. I nervously stuttered and muttered my way through my story, but he let me tell it. He stayed silent through my whole story, giving no indication of emotion outside of an occasional glitter in his gemstone eyes.
As I finished, Flauros smiled a malice-filled grin that showed too many rows of teeth.
“Well,” he said. “It does seem that you are in quite the predicament, my friend Nicholas. I daresay this is what you humans would call a ‘clusterfuck.’ I have no interest, however, in taking you back into my service. I’ve headed in a different direction, and a human knife would not be as useful anymore. The term popular in corporate newsletters and government manuals is ‘rendered obsolete.’”
That was a surprise, albeit a welcome one. I had been sure whatever bargain I made with him would see me in his satanic service for the rest of my mortal existence.
“I do need to know what you want,” the devil continued, flames dancing along his antlers, disappearing into the void at their tips. “You would not have summoned me without something in mind, and you are aware I sign no pact without detailing the specifics down to the finest point.”
“We need to know how to dismiss Mimi,” I said. Flauros’ sapphire eyes glittered wildly at that suggestion.
“I would be rid of that harridan for free. Tell me who the mage is that will cast the exile spell, and I shall instruct him.”
I pointed at Lotus. Flauros nodded.
“Her, then,” he said.
He switched to a language I didn’t recognize and conversed with the jiangshi for a bit. Lotus appeared to be afraid, but she acknowledged him with a deep bow, then Flauros turned back to me, sapphire eyes glittering.
“She will do,” Flauros told me.
He recited a string of Latin to her. She repeated it back, flawlessly, and the devil nodded, impressed.
“Do you require anything else?” he asked. “I am happy to provide anything that would speed the demise of my disloyal former wife.”
“We need tools of war,” said Amalfi.
Flauros turned to her, seemingly noticing her for the first time. “A Chimera? Are you not Vinter’s Chimera?”
“I was,” she said, “but I am no more.”
“A smart career move, young woman!” Flauros said approvingly, nodding ever so slightly as he spoke. “Much like my former paramour, Vinter is quite treacherous, though I daresay he was effective, and competence is hard to come by. But mistakes were made. Regardless, I shall grant your wish. I have ample weapons of war at my disposal and would be pleased to gift you one.”
He turned back to look at me. As I locked eyes with the sapphires sitting where a goat’s eyes should be, I could have sworn I heard screams echoing in my head.
“Tell me,” Flauros said. “Did you, perchance, receive your last payment?”
“I did not,” I said.
“Hmm,” he said. He thought about it. “That will not do. I keep my oaths. In lieu of your payment, I grant you weapons of war. I wish you the best of luck in your endeavor against Vinter. Please send a representative to the Minneapolis-St. Paul airport. Your gift will be waiting there, and my people will be expecting you.”
He looked around the room, raised his arms, and disappeared. As he blinked back to Hell, I noticed the captive’s body had disintegrated, much like my wife’s had two years earlier. Not a trace was left, not even ashes like vampires left behind.
I hit the floor, hard, shuddering and struggling to keep my composure. I couldn’t believe it! Not only had I gotten off without any obligation, the Patron was giving me gifts. The paranoid side of me kept suggesting it was a trap, but that was natural. I excused myself from the basement, trying to forget the way the prisoner’s blood spilt over my hands, and hustled to the bathroom. I barged through the door, and hoping the women downstairs couldn’t hear, braced myself against the toilet with one hand and barfed. I must’ve hurled up everything I’d eaten in the past 24 hours, but the purge was more than biological; it cleared me up mentally, too. I wiped my mouth and wished I had some mints. I drank some water then walked back downstairs.
The women weren’t talking, just cleaning up the ritual items. I pitched in, but I wanted to get moving.
“I think we have what we need,” I said, the taste of vomit still fresh in my mouth. “Let’s head out.”
* * * * *
Chapter Seventeen: Showdown at Acheron Ranch
The weapons of war were waiting at the Minneapolis airport as promised. Amalfi intuitively knew how to use them, her protector’s magic bonding her with the machine. Amalfi and I boarded the plane and began the flight to Texas.
Amalfi flew us in silence, but I could feel the rage between the Chimera and her manipulative, scheming employer. The F/A-18F two-seat jet the Patron loaned us was faster than anything I’d ever been in. Flying usually takes a physical toll on you, but when we landed at the Odessa airport, I felt energized. Maybe it was the caffeine. Maybe it was anxious energy. Maybe it was the feeling that this might be over, and I could finally have one goddamn day removed from Hellish intrigue.
“What’s the plan?” Amalfi asked over the radio headset. “We went to all the trouble to get this aircraft. How do you to use it?”
“I’ll tell you once I’m on the way to the ranch,” I said. “I need to change.”
Once I had changed, we discussed how we were going to take down Vinter. We double-checked that Lotus was ready to do her part. I would’ve liked to rehearse more, but for any dangerous operation, there’s never enough time to rehearse. The two women supporting me affirmed that we were ready. Their confidence helped dampen the anxiousness I was feeling but didn’t get rid of it entirely. Thankfully, I had some travel time to do that.
I rented a cheap four-door sedan and drove toward Vinter’s ranch, along the same roads Amalfi had used the last time I visited. I called when I was 30 minutes out, and Zaira answered. I told her I had completed the mission. She didn’t seem to believe me, but she told me to come down anyway.
I pulled off onto the shoulder and parked the car a five-minute walk away from the ranch. I got my kit from the trunk and readied myself. As I closed the trunk, my insecurities set in. Did they really believe I’d done it? Would I arrive at the ranch, armed for bear, to find a squad of Russian-trained mercenaries or devilish assassins ready to greet me? Did I really have any chance?
I steadied my mind. I rehearsed the plan. I lied to myself and said I wasn’t scared, told myself it would work out fine despite that my inner pessimism assured failure. I silenced the voices and centered myself. It was time for a reckoning.
The approach to the ranch was quiet. No lights welcomed me, and there were no sounds of barbeques or horses whinnying, just the walls of the ranch and the silent buildings behind. The setting sun painted the sky blood red, and the high plains of West Texas reflected the light in a way I found fittingly infernal. The buildings of the ranch were bathed in the light of the setting sun, casting menacing shadows that could hide a host of mercenaries, c
ops, or demons. The spines on top of the wrought-iron gate cast spear-like shadows. The wind whipped and snapped the Texas flag flying high in the center of the ranch.
Vinter’s Lincoln Continental blocked the gate. Based on how low it sat, I was confident it was armored. The vehicle’s lights were off, and the mirrored windows shadowed whoever was inside. On either side of the gate, the wall stood firm. There was only one way through.
I was wearing my Devil’s Gunmen bowling shirt, along with a pair of jeans and a good pair of work boots. My VHS was slung on my back, next to a small athletic bag that contained a few things I knew I’d need for this showdown. I wore a ball cap, one with the American flag on it. In my hands, I held a small wooden box bearing the mark of the Patron. I had no illusions that I looked like the picture of friendliness, but that was okay, I just needed to look friendly enough. As I walked up, someone rolled down the window of the Continental. I expected a gun, a sharp bark, and pain. Instead, I saw one of Vinter’s daughters, Gemma, I think. She wasn’t wearing a sundress this time, just some casual clothes and a military-style plate carrier. A handgun lay next to her on the center console, and her off hand gripped its hilt.
“Hello, Soren,” she said, all the friendliness from the barbeque gone. Her beautiful face shifted between politeness and disdain. She smiled, but it was a smile of obligation. “Welcome back.”
“I’ve got the remnants of the Patron in here,” I said, motioning to the wooden box.
“So, you did it?” she asked, skepticism lacing her words.
I nodded. “I need to see Jerry.”
“Daddy’s busy,” she said, glancing at the box, then back at me. “Give the box to me.”
She held her hands out, waiting for her chance to prove herself to her father. It must have been her mortal heritage that craved that approval, or maybe her infernal side suggested this was a way to get ahead of the others, to prove herself.
“Sure,” I said, passing it to her through the open window.
She grabbed and quickly opened the box. She didn’t see the wire leading to my back pocket. I palmed the clacker I’d stashed there, clicking it three times.
The explosion from the Claymore blew off her hands, but she didn’t have enough time to scream as ball bearings, propelled by the blast, turned her face, head, and upper torso into little more than red paint, streaking the inside of the Continental with gore and guts, and tearing through the seat and roof behind her.
A great howl rose from the ranch as I unslung the VHS and braced on the hood of the Continental, trying to avoid the dead woman’s disfigured corpse. It really is amazing what a combination of ball bearings, explosives, and physics can do to human bodies.
Three of Vinter’s daughters charged across the driveway toward the gate. They looked like they’d stepped out of an infernal western. They were decked in pentagram-adorned ranch wear and wielded old lever guns. Like the sundresses, the ranch wear was color-coordinated. One of them must’ve hit the remote, because the gate started opening, giving them a clearer shot at me, but also giving me a clearer shot at them. I used the new incantation I’d practiced at the Lost Boys’ Club, but this time, I had more confidence.
As I spoke the words Josiah taught me, I felt the rifle begin humming with eldritch energy. A blur of orange and blue escaped into the twilight from the ejection port.
I fired my first round.
I followed the bullet as the firing pin struck the casing, spinning it down the barrel of the bullpup rifle, then soaring across the desert and impacting Vinter’s daughter between her eyes. The bullet blew her head to bits almost instantly, blue and orange light exploding from the wound with the intensity of a bomb. Her headless corpse hit its knees, then fell over, spasming. I noted, absentmindedly, that her blood did not look human.
Her sisters paused; they weren’t prepared for this. That pause was a mistake. There’s a lot of debate about the rules of a firefight, but two are indisputable:
If you’re not moving, be shooting.
If you’re not shooting, be moving.
Anything else is waiting to die.
And that’s before you factor in that your opponent’s imbued with magical power to never miss.
One turned and ran. I sighted on her next and chanted. The round struck true, blowing out her torso and killing her before she hit the ground, her scream echoing across the sunset. Her corpse writhed a bit, and I wasn’t sure if half-demons could regenerate, so I fired twice more. The body stopped jerking.
The final sister charged, a Winchester 1884 at the ready. She fired wildly, working the lever inhumanly fast and bellowing a berserker’s challenge. The bullets impacted the car. Even over the fusillade, I could hear her screams, the screams of a warrior woman who wanted to avenge her comrades.
I didn’t give her that opportunity, though, just the opportunity to join them.
I didn’t wait until the bullets stopped. I extended the rifle over the hood, chanted, and visualized a neck shot. I fired, once, then waited.
No more bullets came. I stood up and was rewarded with the sight of a third corpse. I caught my breath and was about to move forward, when I heard the crack of a distant shot. I again took cover behind the Continental. I couldn’t tell where the shooter was. I wasn’t sure if it was Jerry, Mimi, or another daughter.
I leaned around the front of the car and scanned the area. I couldn’t see a muzzle flash or lens flare, just the sunset-drenched ranch and nearly endless places to hide. The sniper fired again, and a round pinged against the Continental’s engine block. Another round popped a tire, and the Continental sagged forward. I hugged the car. Whatever the shooter was using was something heavy. I cursed and lowered the VHS. I couldn’t spot the target, so even with the spell, my rune was useless. I didn’t even know where to lay down suppressive fire.
We’d planned for this.
I dug a compact radio out of my bag, and clicked it twice, the machine chirping when I was clear to speak.
“Amalfi,” I said. “Where’s the shooter?”
“Standby,” Amalfi’s voice crackled over the radio.
From the horizon, I heard a faint rumbling. It grew louder and louder, and as I looked up, I saw the F/A-18 Hornet she was piloting streak across the sky. By attack aircraft standards, it was low and slow, but to me? It was a grey-blue bolt.
“Thermals show a target on the guest house,” she said. “Let me adjust, and I’ll make another run.”
The fighter jet banked right, and I saw her close in. A pair of cylinders dropped and tumbled through the air. I saw a figure jump off the top of the one-story house, but it was too late. The two bombs did their work, exploding in a bright burst of fiery death. The guest house crumbled, the walls and foundations blown outward from the force of the bombs.
“You’re clear. Thermal target is lost. Want me to hit the main house?” she asked.
“No,” I said. “I’ve got it from here.”
I trusted her report. It might’ve been a risk. You couldn’t confirm a kill with a quick thermal look at high speed, especially with a big thermal bloom, but I knew that, at a minimum, the shooter was suppressed.
The F/A-18 flew off toward the horizon, staying low.
I ran through the open gate, mentally preparing for what I’d find in the house.
Zaira was standing in the driveway. She looked marvelous, her raven hair whipping in the evening breeze, silhouetted by the burning guesthouse. A silver circlet kept her hair out of her face. She had traded her sundress for tight-fitting, black leather, imbued with Hellish sigils that seemed to pulse with her breath. She wore gauntlets with spikes on them, and the shoulders of her armor looked like they had some too. The belt around her waist was clasped with a buckle in the shape of a horned skull. Her combat boots were her only cession to modernity. In her right hand, she held a flail, which glowed a soft orange—or was that an illusion in the dying light?
She held a buckler with an inverted cross in her left hand that pulsed in un
ison with the sigils on her armor. The wood looked fragile, but the sigils looked imposing.
“It’s a shame,” she shouted over the cackling flames. “You had potential.”
She began circling me, raising her shield and whirling the flail. I couldn’t let her get close. Thankfully, she’d chosen a weapon that wouldn’t cover much ground.
“Your father’s a sick son of a bitch,” I said in response.
I couldn’t tell because of the distance, but I think she rolled her eyes.
“What kind of man do you think fucks a demon?” she responded. “He’s still my daddy, and you’re not going to get to him.”
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