Stolen Souls

by Debra Dunbar

  “You’re not John Mayfield. You’re just some monster in his dead body. Where is your Bokor? Who commands you?”

  The creature shrugged and grinned. It was a horrific sight with the strands of flesh and old blood coating his mouth and teeth. “But I am John Mayfield. I have risen from the grave to resume my life here upon this plane. I am under no control but my own, little girl.”

  “Can’t be,” Nyalla stuttered, her gun wavering in her shaky grasp. “There’s no way you are John Mayfield.”

  “No? How is my lovely wife Shelly? Jack? And my dear brother, Ben? No, don’t tell me. I’ll be visiting them soon and I’ll see for myself. How lovely their flesh will taste, soft and filled with warm blood. Babies are especially tender.”

  Nyalla pulled the trigger. As good as she’d been shooting targets behind her brother’s house, adrenaline and fear made for unsteady hands. The shot went wide, the bullet pinging off a nearby gravestone, spraying shards of granite.

  The monster didn’t even flinch. Yellow eyes gleaming, it slowly edged toward Nyalla. Boomer snarled and pushed at her leg, urging her to go. She wanted to run, but all she could think of was this monster tearing baby Jack apart, chewing on his little limbs. Trying to hold her hands steady, she fired again and again.

  The first few shots hit the creature’s torso. He paused, but wasn’t flung backward as gunshot victims always were on television and in video games. Thrilled that she’d finally hit him, Nyalla kept shooting until the clip was empty. Out of the fifteen shots, only about half hit the creature, most grazing him. The few solid hits did nothing. He’d stopped advancing, but not for long. As Nyalla’s gun clicked empty, the creature strode toward her, not even slowed by the gunshot wounds in his legs and abdomen. Nyalla finally heeded Boomer’s insistent nudging. Dumping the empty clip, she slammed another into the gun as she ran.

  The creature was everywhere, yellow eyes to one side then the other, fetid breath against her neck. It was playing with her, toying as a cat would to a mouse. The SUV was right ahead, but with a sinking feeling, Nyalla realized she’d never make it. Even if she’d had the speed of an elf, she’d never make it. This monster intended to take her before she’d reached the vehicle, right when her heart was thudding with hope.

  “Nyalla! Get down!”

  Instinctively she obeyed, flinging herself to the ground and rolling with momentum. Gunshots rang out, and she saw Eric to the left, about thirty feet away. He’d not hesitated to open fire, and Nyalla’s heart swelled with gratitude. He’d followed her, and although that was irksome, all was forgiven the moment he’d turned into her defender.

  The monster was lying on the ground behind her, and she hesitated, wondering why Eric’s bullets had such an effect while hers hadn’t. Did they have spelled weapons here as back in Hel? But there was no time to ponder this. The creature was down, but may not be for long. Scrambling to her feet, she pulled the bag of salt from her pocket and dumped the contents on the thing.

  “What are you doing? Get out of here!” Eric was approaching, his gun trained on the figure on the ground, his eyes darting between the creature and Nyalla.

  “Covering my nuts.”

  “It’s covering your butt. And why are you seasoning this guy?”

  “I don’t think he’s a zombie, but just in case, I’m trying the salt method. You might want to shoot him in the head, too. That works in Wyatt’s video games, and right now I think we should try everything.”

  Eric shot her a quizzical look, clearly thinking fear had momentarily addled her brain. Eyes back on the downed figure, he nudged it with his toe, commanding it to put its hand behind its back. The thing rocked slightly, only to return limply to its original position.

  “Here.” Eric handed her the gun. “Cover me while I cuff him.”

  “I don’t think that’s a good idea. Let’s shoot him in the head instead.”

  And now Eric looked irritated. “I don’t know how you do things in Finland, but here we don’t just go shooting people in the head. Ugh, this guy looks terrible, and he stinks. Probably needs medical attention — who knows what kind of disease he’s got.”

  “He’s far beyond medical attention. He’s dead. Rotting. We need to shoot him in the head.”

  Eric ignored her and grabbed an arm, twisting it to bring it behind the creature’s back. It made a series of horrible cracking noises, and Eric inhaled a sharp breath, his grip loosening.

  “It’s like his bones are — ohhhh shit, shit!”

  The monster’s skin rolled, like a million insects burrowed just under the surface, splitting at the spine ridge to reveal black ooze. Eric let go and leapt to his feet, but not in time to avoid the hand that shot out to grab his ankle. He yelped and fell backward as the creature yanked, rising up to its knees. Nyalla fired, and at this close range managed to put a bullet into the being’s head.

  The monster’s head rocked backward, dark liquid spilling from its forehead to trickle down its temple and cheek. Its yellow eyes still glowed, full of amusement as the creature righted its head and grinned at Nyalla.

  “Nice shot, little girl. I’ll let you watch while I eat your boyfriend.”

  Nyalla kept shooting until the top of the monster’s head was a mess of jagged bone and dark liquid. Eric yanked and pulled, trying to free his ankle and distance himself from the monster. The gun was empty, and the creature still held fast to Eric’s leg, its golden eyes alert and alive inside a face that now resembled ground meat.

  “You are a fun little thing. I may savor you over days, enjoying your screams of pain as I slowly devour you.”

  How was it still talking? Panicked, Nyalla threw Eric’s gun at it and screamed. Eric twisted, bringing a rock up to smash on the creature’s head. It laughed, grabbing his arm with its other hand, mangled jaws separating to reveal rows of perfect teeth, gleaming white in the moonlight. Just as the monster lifted Eric’s arm to take a bite, a huge shape emerged from the darkness, knocking the pair to the ground in a tangle of limbs.

  Eric rolled free and Nyalla ran to him. The monster threw the other shape clear, and Nyalla gasped. She somehow recognized this other creature as Boomer, although she’d never seen him looking quite like this. He was several feet taller and had two enormous heads. Instead of taking its advantage, the monster wailed, flinging its arms about as if brushing stinging insects from its body. Boomer launched his powerful body at the thing, this time knocking it backwards against a large tombstone.

  “Where’s my gun?” Eric shouted, holding a second clip in his hand.

  “I threw it at him.” Nyalla winced. “You can’t shoot anyway, you might hit Boomer.”

  Eric’s jaw dropped. “That’s Boomer?”

  Before she could reply, the creature gave another agonized wail and vanished in a puff of damp mist. Nyalla raced towards Boomer, but he seemed unhurt. One giant head panted at her happily, tail wagging, as he shook his body, spraying fine dirt everywhere. He was covered in the stuff. Where had he been while she’d been fighting for her life — taking a mud bath?

  “Bad dog.” she scolded, but her words lacked heat. She was just relieved he was okay — that they all were okay. The hound gave her a guilty look, nudging her leg in apology. She scratched an ear. “Okay, I forgive you.”

  “What was that thing?” Eric asked, finally finding his pistol in the grass and clearing it before stashing it in his holster. “And more to the point, what is that thing.”

  He was pointing at Boomer, who swiped a long pink tongue up around his nose with one head, while the other drooled profusely.

  It was time for honesty, even if it meant she’d never see Eric again.

  “This is Boomer. He’s a hellhound, and this is his original form. He uses the other one most of the time so he doesn’t frighten everyone.”

  “Does his owner know about him? Samantha Martin?”

  Nyalla nodded. “She’s from Hel too. She’s a demon, an imp. She’s also the Iblis, which is what I believe you all refer
to as Satan.”

  Eric let out a whoosh of breath. “Well, that’s not surprising. All the locals have been calling her the devil for the last decade or so. Nice to know there’s some truth in gossip.”

  “I don’t know what that thing was that attacked us. Aunt Marie said it might be a magic user gathering corpses for a spell, or it could be a zombie. Neither one fits though.”

  “Is this Aunt Marie a demon too?” Eric rubbed a dirty hand over his forehead.

  “No, she’s a priestess. Back home, we would have called her a sorcerer, but the magic here is different.”

  Eric nodded, swallowing a few times as he regarded Nyalla. He looked very worried, and Nyalla squirmed, feeling the tension rise between them. “So you’re not from Finland, are you? Are you a demon? Is that why you’re living in Satan’s house and pet–sitting a hellhound?”

  “I’m not a demon. I’m human, but … . It’s a long story. Would you please come back to the house with me for coffee? I’ll tell you everything.”

  And she would, even if it meant he ran screaming from her house never wanting to see her again. She’d lied to him and almost gotten him killed tonight. Yes, he’d forgiven her for nearly running him over the first time she’d met him, but this was different, and she had a feeling it might be what the humans here called “a deal breaker.”

  Eric hesitated, and Nyalla felt her breath catch in her throat.

  “Okay.”

  15

  Boomer snuck out as soon as he was sure the girl and her man were safe and otherwise occupied. There had been coffee, a box of powdered sugar donuts, tears, and lots of affection that the hellhound recognized as a precursor to mating. Why these two just didn’t get right to it was beyond him. All the kissing had been very boring to watch, but at least it had afforded him an opportunity to steal the remaining six powdered sugar donuts.

  Picking up speed, Boomer raced through the shadows on his way back to the cemetery where they’d seen him. He’d been wracked with indecision when the girl’s fire–spitter hadn’t destroyed the monster. He could have stayed and fought to buy the girl time, but he wouldn’t be able to defeat the creature pursuing her, and if it managed to kill him, she’d be left defenseless. Boomer had seen that man of hers in the distance and made a decision, sprinting with hellhound speed to the monster’s grave and back again. Grave dirt from his burial spot wouldn’t destroy him, but it would cause him pain.

  He’d gotten back just in time. A second later, and the creature would have eaten the young man then turned his hunger on the girl. Thankfully the injuries the monster had sustained by the fire–spitters, and the pain of the grave dirt Boomer had coated his fur with, had driven him away.

  The monster wasn’t full strength yet, but a few more nights would change that. The hound glanced up at the moon snared in the edges of the distant forest. The creature would gather strength from the dead, from the souls of ghosts, and eventually from the living. In a few days, he would be unstoppable.

  Boomer hopped the fence to the cemetery, easily clearing the six–foot iron bars to land in the soft grass on the other side. He quickly found the monster’s scent and traced it out of the cemetery. The creature had hunkered down in the woods a mile away to regenerate then had returned to finish his meal and fully regain his strength.

  From there, Boomer followed the scent from the cemetery and over the fields to the west. A frown furrowed his brow as he passed two small cemeteries and several locations with known ghostly residents. Where was the monster going? His mission right now should have been to accumulate as much energy and strength as possible. Why would he have bypassed several opportunities for a meal?

  The hellhound panted as he turned down a narrow country lane. A quick sniff of the shoulder told him that his quarry had turned off the road and across a large expanse of lawn towards a small house. It was the kind of house farmers built when they’d hit a financial hard spot and needed to break off a few acres for sale. It was surrounded by corn and pasture, an acre of manicured green with a pre–fab box in the center flanked by a garage twice the size of the house.

  Boomer cast about, convinced he’d made a mistake somewhere and lost the scent. He hadn’t. The trail led to the house and around back where the hellhound found a large dog, gutted and sprawled across the porch steps. The hackles on his back rose, and he snarled, although he could tell the trail was at least an hour old.

  To go inside, or keep following? Boomer knew he should forge ahead and try to catch up with the monster, to somehow try and stop him from taking another soul, but something held him back. He trotted past the eviscerated pet. The door was ajar, and a small nudge with his nose sent it open.

  The room was red with blood, chewed body parts everywhere. The hound carefully padded in, identifying the victims as an adult man, an adult woman, and two children. The monster was clearly stronger than he had thought if he’d already escalated to murdering living beings. They were running out of time.

  The hellhound expanded his awareness, looking for souls that had not moved on. Nothing. Either they’d departed when their bodies died, or the monster had consumed their souls as well. He hoped it was the former. Death was a shock, and this a particularly violent transition. In situations like this, the soul tended to linger. Such a monster would take advantage of a confused spirit, and this monster needed as much energy as he could gain to counter their earlier attack. Four dead might not be enough. Others might be at risk, and he needed to do what he could to hold the creature at bay.

  Boomer turned to leave, hopeful he could catch up to the creature and keep him busy until daybreak when he would need to go to ground. As he neared the door, a faint noise caught his attention. He cocked his head, swiveling ears to better listen, and heard it again. It sounded as if something was shifting, moving against the carpet.

  The hellhound carefully traced the sound, coming to a stop in front of a closet door. Standing on hind legs, he gently grasped the levered handle in his mouth and pulled it down. The door eased open. Inside, a row of coats hung on a rack, and boots sat on the floor. Anyone else would have turned away, convinced they’d heard a mouse or one of the odd noises houses sometimes make, but Boomer sniffed, relying on his nose to reveal what his other senses didn’t. His nose led him to a tiny pair of boots in the farthest corner of the closet. He followed the boots upward to a faint line of skin that merged with an oversized leather coat.

  A child, hiding and so very still that only a hound with a sensitive nose could have made the discovery. Boomer whined, trying to make himself sound as vulnerable and harmless as possible. The coat moved a fraction, and the hellhound heard an almost silent intake of breath. He whined again, pushing his cold, wet nose against the visible strip of skin.

  This time the gasp was clearly audible. The coat shifted, and bright blue eyes regarded him fearfully. Boomer wagged his tail, feeling it thump against the walls of the small closet.

  “Is he gone?” the child whispered. “Can I come out now?”

  The hound pressed against him, reluctant to let the boy view the carnage in the room just beyond the door. There were some things a child should never see.

  “Okay. Will you stay with me?”

  Boomer hesitated. He needed to track the monster. Other souls were at risk, but he didn’t want to leave this young child alone with the remains of his parents and siblings. Five hours until sunup. Who knows how many would die by then? Still… . He looked at the round face a few inches above his own, saw the fear in the child’s blue eyes and made his decision.

  It was late morning before Boomer heard the panicked screams of another human. Finally someone had arrived and seen what had happened. The boy had been sleeping soundly, his arms around the hound and his face buried in Boomer’s velvety fur, but the human’s cry woke him. He called out in response. Moments later, the closet door was thrust open and the child bundled into welcoming arms, his view shielded by a hastily grabbed coat.

  The woman hardly gave a glanc
e to the hound lying on the closet floor. She sobbed and rocked the child as Boomer eased silently by her and out the door. The monster would be in the ground by now. Worry coursed through the hound as he wondered how many others had died tonight. Could he have prevented it? He’d made his choice, though, and looking back at the child huddled against a woman’s shoulder, he knew he’d made the only one he could.

  16

  Nyalla pulled the eggs from the microwave and upended the plastic trays onto toasted muffins, topping them with a square of processed cheese and some dried parsley she’d found in the cabinet. There. Rachel Ray, eat your heart out.

  Eric eyed the plate as she sat it before him. “Do you always microwave your eggs?”

  “I’m not very good with the stove yet,” Nyalla confessed. “And I bought this item that says it cooks eggs to sublime perfection. There are all sorts of useful things advertised on late–night television.”

  He took a bite. “So, microwaved eggs and leftover takeout pizza. Are there other hidden talents yet to be revealed? Windsurfing, or underwater basket weaving?”

  Nyalla’s mind detoured for a quick moment. Windsurfing. She envisioned the beach to her side as she sped across the water, board hopping the waves. Her hair would stream behind her like a blond flag, her arms expertly maneuvering the sail to catch the optimal breeze. Someday.

  “No. No hidden talents,” she lied, reluctant to tell him about the gift the angel had given her. Eric had been freaked out enough by what she’d revealed the night before.

  “So, what are we going to do? This woo–woo stuff is way beyond my experience, and the detective on this case would think I was crazy if I told him what went on last night.”

  It’s not like she had any experience dealing with this sort of thing either. But given that she’d spent a lot of time cleaning up the messes demons left, she probably was more qualified than Eric to handle it. The knowledge gave her a strange sense of power, a hint of confidence. He was relying on her to propose a plan. She would take the lead — Nyalla, the former worthless slave who had no magic and only knew menial labor. It was a heady feeling.