Damoren

by Seth Skorkowsky

  DÄMOREN

  By Seth Skorkowsky

  Copyright © 2014. All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Edits by Tim Marquitz | Cover Design by J.M. Martin

  Worldwide Rights

  Created in the United States of America

  Published by Ragnarok Publications | www.ragnarokpub.com

  Editor-In-Chief: Tim Marquitz | Creative Director: J.M. Martin

  DÄMOREN

  Book One of the Valducan

  by

  Seth Skorkowsky

  Table of Contents

  Dedication

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  About the Author

  Dedication

  To Kayci. I love our life together.

  Chapter One

  Fourteen years ago:

  Spencer lay on daisy-yellow linoleum, his cheek against the kitchen cabinets. Slick with sweat, he cradled his arm and clutched the hard lump jutting below his elbow. He knew it was broken, but it didn’t hurt. In fact, he didn’t feel much of anything except a prickly tingle, as if his leg had fallen asleep in the car.

  April’s screams echoed from upstairs. How long had she been screaming? Drawing a breath, Spencer rolled his head to see silverware and shards of broken plates strewn across the cabin floor. Grunting slurps came from the other side of the fallen kitchen table, its green tablecloth crumpled beside it. Mom’s slender legs stuck out from the other side. One foot still wore a blue flip-flop.

  Last year, for his eleventh birthday, Dad had taken Spencer deer hunting. He bagged a six-point on their second time out. Afterward, his dad strung it up by the back legs and showed him how to dress it. When he cut it open, the acrid stink of blood and slimy gray intestines nearly made Spencer throw up. It was the foulest thing he’d ever smelled.

  Now, that same stench wafted from his mother’s motionless body.

  Groaning, he slowly lifted himself to a sitting position. Halos ringed the kitchen lights. He scrunched his eyes, fighting a wave of vertigo. He opened them again and looked around, struggling to recall what had happened. His sister’s screams had stopped.

  “A...April?” he croaked.

  Bloody fingers, tipped with hooked claws, curled over the lip of the fallen table.

  Spencer froze.

  A round, leathery head, its ashen skin the color of birch wood, rose up. Blood and slug-like chunks of gore surrounded its lipless mouth. Pale eyes regarded him from deep sockets. The creature gnashed its teeth and gave a growling hiss.

  Spencer’s mouth opened. He gulped like a fish, his brain struggling to grasp what was happening. Terror and shock took hold, and a wave of calmness rolled up his trembling body, like slipping into a warm bath. The world seemed to go silent, numb, and Spencer’s gaze fell away from the monster.

  Snarling, the creature cocked its head. But Spencer didn’t respond. It sounded faint and distant, as if from a deep tunnel.

  Another of the gaunt figures walked down from upstairs. Its head nearly reached the ceiling. Red blood streaked the left half of its face. Its belly was swollen, bulbous like a freshly fed snake. A pink, plastic beaded necklace hung from the creature’s neck. It seemed familiar to Spencer, but he didn’t know where from. Sniffing the air, the beast strode toward Spencer’s mother.

  The monsters chuffed and growled with each other, as if talking. It felt as though they were speaking about him, but Spencer didn’t care.

  Something moved in one of the windows, drawing his gaze, but he saw nothing there.

  The necklace-wearing monster gestured toward Spencer, stabbing a long, clawed finger at him. The other gave a short caw and crouched back down behind the table. Spencer didn’t look up as the monster approached. Hooked talons clacked on the linoleum.

  Movement came from the other kitchen window. A man furiously shook one of those red-capped spice jars, like his mother used, with the lid that twists to open all the little holes. Spencer croaked at seeing him, the cry for help lost in his throat. The stranger held out his hand, put his finger to his lips, and was gone.

  The monster crouched before Spencer. Its bony hand hovered before him like a cobra gauging where to strike. Its breath came in quick, desperate gasps. The hand snatched Spencer’s leg. Sharp claws sank into flesh. He screamed. Squeezing tight, the monster opened its mouth and dove for Spencer’s calf.

  Wood cracked as the kitchen door burst open. The monster whirled around. The man, wearing an olive green coat, stepped inside, holding some odd mating of a bowie knife and the biggest handgun in the world. Without hesitation, the man swung the pistol toward the necklace-wearing monster. A bright flash erupted from the tip. The thunderous boom shook the walls, snapping Spencer out of his near-catatonia. He found himself staring at the fallen beast before him. A pale finger of orange-blue flame jetted from the hole in its chest.

  Cocking the hammer, the man brought his gun around to the monster behind the table. The beast leapt up and scuttled away along the ceiling with blurring speed. The pistol tracked it as if connected by an invisible thread. Another flash and deafening crack. Splinters of wood exploded from the brown paneling. Unharmed, the monster jumped to the floor. The hammer clicked again, but the beast sprung up the stairs and out of sight.

  “Damn it,” the man growled, then ran up after it.

  Thick gun smoke filled the room. Spencer let out a breath. His ears rang in a long, steady hum. The wispy flames had spread over the beast’s corpse, yet it didn’t seem to burn. Slowly, he struggled to stand, but the pain of his broken arm suddenly became very real. Teeth clenched, he held back a scream.

  A shot came from upstairs.

  He needed to get somewhere safe. He didn’t know if his family was even alive, but sitting helplessly on the floor wasn’t going to help anyone. A phone hung on the opposite wall behind the kicked-open door. He couldn’t see it, but knew it was there. He could call an ambulance, the police, anyone who could help. Setting his jaw, Spencer cradled his arm and stood. Pain shot through the fractured limb as if he were tearing it off. He held his breath and stepped forward, fighting to keep conscious. He passed the table where his mother lay, but didn’t look down. Tears streaked his face. An old knife block rested on the counter, black plastic handles jutting from their slotted holes.

  Another gunshot boomed above. Ignoring the knives, Spencer hobbled to the phone, slipping behind the door. He started for the receiver when another of the hairless, gray monsters appeared from the back room. It ran to the open kitchen door that hid Spencer from view, and then stopped. Peering through the crack between frame and hinges, Spencer watched the thing crouch and sniff the ground outside the threshold. A hiss rose from its lipless mouth.

  Too terrified to move, Spencer held his breath, his eyes locked on the beast just two feet from him. Please don’t see me. Please don’t see me. Please don’t see me.

  Footsteps echoed on the wooden floor upstairs. The beast turned. Claws open and out at its side, the creature started back toward the stairs. It had taken only three or four steps past
Spencer’s hiding place when he remembered the knives.

  Pushing aside the pain and fear, he yanked the butcher knife from the block and lunged, driving the rust-flecked blade into the monster’s back as high as he could. The steel buried beneath the beast’s jutting shoulder blade.

  Howling, it wheeled around, ripping the knife from Spencer’s grasp. Its long hand caught him by the neck and yanked him off his feet. Stabbing pain shot through his broken arm. Blindly, Spencer dug his fingers under the monster’s claws, trying to pry them free. The beast twisted its thumb, bending Spencer’s head to the side, then bit into his shoulder.

  A choked scream gurgled in Spencer’s throat. His skin ripped under the jagged teeth. Hot blood sprayed his neck and ran down his chest. Spencer hammered his fist against the creature’s head, but to no effect.

  A shock jolted his neck, numbing the pain. The prickly numbness spread through his body, taking with it his fear, but bringing a sense of hopelessness. His clenched fist loosened and fell limp to his side. He felt the monster not just on him, but inside him, pulsing through his veins, filling them with blackness.

  A gunshot boomed. Something punched him just below the chest and Spencer fell to the floor.

  Struggling to catch his breath, he raised his head to see the beast lying before him. Faint blue flames jetted from a hole through its chest and out its back. In the room beyond, the man in the green coat crouched at the top of the stairs behind a cloud of smoke, his massive revolver held before him, and an expression of bitter disappointment on his face. Following the stranger’s gaze, Spencer looked down to see the monster’s blood and bits of flesh splattered over him. In the center of the gore, just right of his sternum, blood belched out from a finger-sized bullet hole.

  “Don’t move!” the man yelled, racing down the rest of the steps. He turned down the short hall behind him and entered one of the two bedroom doors.

  Spencer clutched the wound. Slick, wetness oozed between his fingers. Turning his head, he saw his mother’s body for the first time. Her blood-soaked shirt lay open in tatters, one breast exposed, the other gone. Slick pink loops of entrails spilled out her side. White bone shone through the gnawed holes in her chest and face. He screamed. Hot blood gushed from the wound and down his arm. He continued screaming. Blackness worked at the edges of his vision.

  Booted footsteps hurried up from the back rooms and Spencer found himself looking into the face of the gun-wielding stranger. Streaks of gray tinged his whiskers.

  “They’re gone,” the man assured, sliding the crumpled tablecloth beneath Spencer’s neck. “You’re going to be okay.” Flicking open a knife, he slit open Spencer’s T-shirt and scooped it into a ball toward the bleeding hole.

  He lifted Spencer’s hand and pressed the wad of torn shirt over the wound. “My name’s Clay. I’ve fixed up a lot worse than this.”

  Spencer couldn’t help but wonder if Clay had shot those people, too. A knot, like a hot coal, formed in his chest. The bullet. The burning spread, coursing through his veins like he’d been injected with lit gasoline. He thought of the monsters, the orange-blue fire that spilled from their wounds. A wave of blazing pain surged through him, twisting his body like a leaf on a flame.

  “Hold still!” Clay said, fighting Spencer’s thrashing. His large hands pressed against the bloodied rag, pinning him to the floor.

  The heat inside Spencer’s body spiraled to the bite in his neck. He expected fire to burst from him like a geyser, but instead, the pain vanished. And not just the burning heat, but the bullet hole, the bite, even his broken arm. It was suddenly quiet, and he realized he’d been screaming. He sucked a deep breath and opened his tear-soaked eyes.

  Clay stared at the wound in Spencer’s neck, his dark eyes narrowing. The pressure on the blood-soaked shirt loosened, then vanished. Reaching for the revolver on his belt, the old man rose to his feet and backed away.

  Spencer clawed for the rag and pressed it back over his wound.

  Eyes on Spencer, Clay lowered himself into one of the wooden dining chairs. He gnawed his lip, then spoke. “What’s your name, boy?”

  He stared at the black barrel pointed at him. “S...Spencer. Spencer Mallory.”

  Clay nodded as if he’d just learned some obscure piece of trivia. “Well, Spencer, that was a pretty brave thing you did.” He nodded to the monster lying dead inches from Spencer’s legs. Ethereal flames flickered over the body, seeming to almost hover above it. A thick pool of dark, burning blood spread out beneath it, soaking Spencer’s Levi’s.

  “Course a knife like that won’t do anything against a wendigo,” the old man continued. “Just piss it off. Now a stag-horn blade, that’d kill it. But just the body. The spirit, the demon itself, now that’s a lot harder to kill. Killing a demon needs a special weapon.” He raised the gun up higher, turning it over for Spencer to see. Swirls of gold etched the blackened metal. A gleaming edge ran the length of the ten-inch blade mounted below its octagonal barrel. “A holy weapon.”

  Spencer swallowed as the gun barrel seemed to click back into place, aimed at his heart.

  With his left hand, Clay flipped a latch on the back of the gun’s cylinder. “You can stake a vampire, pump a hundred silver bullets into a werewolf,” his gaze didn’t waver as he pushed an empty shell out of the cylinder and dropped it into a canvas bag slung over his shoulder, “but its spirit will just move to a new host.” The old man’s fingers, as if independent of the rest of him, pulled a fresh bullet from his leather belt and loaded it into the gun.

  “You see, when a demon bites you, it marks you. Not physically, you see. It marks your soul. It can possess you anytime it wants after that. No matter how much time passes, or how far away...it’ll take you.” He reloaded a second round into the revolver. “When that wendigo bit you, it bound you.”

  A cold dread wormed in Spencer’s brain as he remembered the numbing darkness when the monster had bitten down. It had entered him. He looked to the creature’s corpse, then back to the gun in Clay’s hand, pointed straight at him.

  “Your wound’s stopped bleeding, Spencer.” He dropped another spent shell into his bag and pulled a fresh one from his belt. “Don’t think I need to tell you that ain’t normal.”

  Spencer loosened his grip on the rag to his chest. No blood surged out. Carefully, he lifted the red-soaked wad to see purple skin, like a fresh scar, where the hole had been. Sliding his fingers to his shoulder, he felt no wound. Was he becoming a monster? A wendigo, the man called it?

  “You’re not a wendigo,” Clay said, reading Spencer’s obvious panic. “That fire, you see, is its soul burnin’ up. Only happens when the demon itself dies. If I’d just killed the body, it’d transform back into the corpse of whomever it possessed. But now it’s burnin’ up. In half an hour or so, it’ll change back to the host. Thing is, Spencer, if the demon’s dead, why are you healing?”

  “I...I...don’t know,” Spencer mumbled, shaking his head.

  Clay loaded another bullet. “How do you feel? Physically, I mean.”

  “Fine... I guess.”

  The old man nodded, as if to himself. “I owe you an apology. See, I’ve been followin’ this pack up the Appalachians for the last month. Thought I had ‘em in Warren couple days ago, but they got away. My mistake. They’d been posing as an Indian family. Four of ‘em. Parents and two teenage kids, but they transferred into a group of college students. Made it past me. Just didn’t get here in time.”

  Spencer remembered the beaded necklace. He’d seen it on a pretty brunette girl that day out on the lake. She and her friends said they’d rented a summer cabin a mile or so up the road from theirs.

  “You hungry?” Clay asked while loading a last bullet and snapping the little latch closed. There felt more to the question than just idle chat.

  “No.”

  Pursing his lips, the old man seemed to study Spencer. Ponder him like one might ponder one of those puzzle questions his teacher Mrs. Metcalf asked every Friday, lik
e, ‘Is stealing in order to save yourself wrong?’ or, ‘Would you rather be blind or deaf?’

  “Close your eyes, Spencer.”

  “Why?”

  “Humor me.”

  Spencer did as he was asked. He heard Clay shuffling, maybe digging in his bag. A sharp pain shot up his arm as the broken bone fully crunched itself back into place.

  “You all right?” the old man asked.

  “Yeah.” He nodded, his eyes scrunched from the now fading pain. “My arm.” Letting out a breath, he rubbed it. A warm knot melted below the skin.

  “Still hurtin’?”

  He shook his head. “Just a bit. But it’s going away.” He realized his mistake as he said it. The mere fact his arm was healing was why there was a man holding a gun on him. Not that it was somehow weirder than his other mending wounds.

  “Do you know any other languages, Spence?” His voice sounded a bit muffled, like when the phone would sometimes pick up an echo or other conversation in the background. “French, Latin, any of that?”

  “No.”

  “Nothing in school?”

  “No. I’ll be taking Spanish in high school.” The sudden thought that he probably wouldn’t go back to school again flickered in his mind. It didn’t seem real. An hour ago, he was eating with his family and bickering with his sister. Now they were gone. Eaten by monsters. Demons.

  Something soft hit his chest, snapping him back to the present. He touched his skin and it felt gritty like sand. Rubbing it between his fingers, he sniffed the coarse powder. It smelled spicy, like his dad’s roasted game hen. “What is this?”

  No answer.

  Spencer touched his finger to his tongue. It tasted more like salty dirt than anything.

  He heard Clay’s grunt. “Aren’t you a mystery. Got a third-ounce blessed silver in you. Powder doesn’t do anything, but you heal like one of ‘em and speak French.”

  “What?” Spencer’s eyes opened catching the last bit.