Damoren

by Seth Skorkowsky

  Clay’s hand tensed on the gun.

  He scrunched his eyes. “I’m sorry. I...I...didn’t mean to...”

  “It’s all right. Go ahead and open ‘em.”

  Slowly, Spencer did so. The scruffy man sat in the chair watching him, the bladed revolver still trained on him, but somehow relaxed.

  “What did you mean I speak French?”

  “I mean you understand it,” Clay said, his voice again muddled. “You didn’t even notice I wasn’t speaking English.” His lips moved out of sync with the words, like in a Kung Fu movie. Instead, they mouthed the voice in the background, which Spencer now recognized as another language.

  The old man grinned, seemingly amused at Spencer’s obvious bewilderment.

  “How?”

  Clay shrugged. “Demons aren’t hindered by human languages.”

  He glanced to the dead wendigo now blanketed in ghostly flames. “Are you going to kill me?”

  The question hung in the air.

  “Don’t know,” Clay said, finally. He lifted the revolver up. Its gold etching glinted. “This is Dämoren. She’s going to tell me.” Opening the latch, he pushed out a single shell and held it up. Tiny swirls and writing covered the silver bullet and golden brown casing. “She holds seven rounds.” He slid the shell into one of the empty loops on his belt.

  Keeping his gaze on Spencer, Clay lowered the hammer slightly, then spun the gun’s cylinder. It whirred with rapid little clicks.

  “What are you doing?”

  The clicks slowed then stopped. Clay cocked the hammer back. “If Dämoren thinks you’re safe, she won’t fire.” His brow rose, finishing the explanation.

  “No! No, please.” Spencer held out his hands, as if he could somehow push the barrel away with mind-power. “Don’t kill me.”

  “It’s not up to me, son,” his voice regretful.

  “Please!”

  Clay raised the gun and pulled the trigger.

  Chapter Two

  Present Day:

  Blue hands glided across the polished wood box, rubbing a cloth disk around the seam. The officer looked at the swab in his hand and lifted the box lid. The fluorescents gleamed off the nameplate as it swung open. ‘Dämoren’ etched in brass.

  A long low breath escaped the border agent’s lips, like he’d tried to whistle, but maybe didn’t know how. The other CBSA officer beside him looked down from his clipboard at the elaborate black and gilt gun resting inside amongst an assortment of intricate tools. The man in blue gloves removed a new swab from a plastic jar and ran it over the barrel. Tiny red gemstones glistened as the moist disk passed over them.

  “That isn’t going to hurt the finish, is it?” Matt asked from the other side of the table.

  “No sir,” Blue Hands answered without looking up.

  “It’s not going to leave any residue or anything?”

  “No sir. It evaporates very quickly.”

  “What is it you’re looking for?”

  “It’s a standard check for explosives and other chemicals,” Blue Hands replied patiently.

  “Explosives?” Matt said. “That pistol hasn’t been fired in at least fifty years.”

  The officer holding the clipboard gave a short cough. His nametag read, ‘M. Johnston.’ “We need to ask you a few questions, Mr. Hollis.”

  “Sure.”

  “Your name is Matthew Aaron Hollis?”

  “Yes.” It wasn’t a lie. Not anymore. He’d lived longer as Matt Hollis than he ever had as Spencer Mallory.

  Johnston’s pen ticked the clipboard. “Country of origin?”

  “United States.”

  Another tick. “And what is your destination?”

  “Calgary. There’s an antique showing there and I’m hoping to exhibit some of my goods.”

  “Are you aware of the laws about bringing guns, specifically handguns, into Canada, Mr. Hollis?”

  Matt nodded. “Yes, I am. And this piece falls into the category of antique firearm.”

  Officer Johnston looked down from his clipboard to Dämoren resting in its case. He flipped to another page. “Year of manufacture?”

  “1873, by Dumonthier of Paris.”

  “Black powder or cartridge-fired?”

  “It’s a black powder cartridge,” Matt answered. “One of the first. Just a few months younger than Colt’s Single Action. Mechanically, they’re very similar, but notice the loading gate is on the left side. Very unusual.”

  The officer gave no more than a moment’s glance. “Caliber?”

  “Eleven millimeter, but the only shells made for it, you see, are those in the box.” He motioned to the two triangular wedges set in the case’s front corners. Gold-lined holes dotted the wedges, fifteen per side. Etched bronze disks, with brass centers, covered a little over half the holes. “Out of the thirty, those are the last eighteen shells in the world that can fit in it.”

  Blue Hands wedged his gloved thumbnail into one of the tiny grooves below the disks and drew out a long, empty bronze casing. He slid it back in and drew another, then another.

  “They’re not loaded, I assure you,” Matt said calmly.

  Officer Johnston’s brow creased. “So they made a gun with only thirty shots?” the official tone to his voice waning into conversational.

  “Those other tools,” motioning to the little clamps and rods nestled in their velvet-lined compartments, all etched with intricate scrollwork and foreign words, “are for molding bullets and reloading.”

  The officer jotted something on his sheet.

  Matt glanced out the window to the little parking lot behind the building. He couldn’t see his car but knew it was out there somewhere. Probably getting a good once-over by more CBSA agents. Not that they’d find anything. He’d made sure of that.

  “It is a very unusual pistol, Mr. Hollis,” Officer Johnston said as his partner lifted Dämoren from its niche. Decades of gun oil had stained the velvet beneath to near black. “The blade under the barrel... Very different.”

  “It was a sword blade,” Matt said, trying to hide his discomfort as the agent handled the revolver.

  “A sword?”

  “Thirteenth Century from what’s modern-day Switzerland. The blade was broken and the owner had a gunsmith craft it into this.” Matt pointed to the straight handle angling down from behind the trigger. A bronze knob, resembling a two-headed wolf, capped the end. “That’s the original ivory sword handle.”

  “What’s it worth?” Johnston asked.

  “Oh, I’ve no intention of selling it. I just use it to draw people to my other goods.”

  “No.” He tapped the clipboard with his pen. “The value?”

  “Ah,” Matt said with a chuckle. “It’s appraised at eighty-four thousand. I, um, already put all that on the forms, sir. This won’t be its first trip up here for one of these shows.” He smiled, running his fingers through his sandy hair. “I’m getting used to the drill.”

  The officer smiled back. “Routine questions. I just have a few more.”

  The agent ran down his list, asking Matt each question, which Matt answered. Blue Hands placed Dämoren back into her box and closed the lid before moving his attention to the two sets of Victorian-era silverware, various jewelry, a dozen gold coins, and a yellowed diary once belonging to a Lieutenant James Whitmore of the North-West Mounted Police.

  A door opened and a blonde woman stepped inside the small Customs office. The sharp creases of her dark uniform were so pronounced, Matt wondered if she did anything in her off-time but iron. She handed Johnston a pair of forms and a passport, gave Matt an emotionless glance, turned, and left. Through the open door, Matt caught a glimpse of a TV in the other room. A picture of a teenage girl smiling with her family. The name beneath it read, ‘Rachel Fidell.’ The fourth victim. Next, a grainy picture from a parking lot camera showed an old woman talking to Rachel. Then an artist’s rendition of the woman: high forehead, round cheeks, gray-white hair. Matt only saw it for a moment
before the pneumatics silently pinched the door closed. It didn’t matter. The face meant nothing. The old woman was a mask. He knew the face under the mask, under the flesh.

  “These are yours, sir,” Johnston said, offering Matt his passport and a laminated blue card. “Welcome to Canada, Mr. Hollis.”

  Matt took them. The picture staring at him from the open passport was his, although the hair was noticeably shorter and it was taken during one of Matt’s occasional, and always unsuccessful attempts, at growing facial hair. He closed it and slid them both into his shirt pocket. “Thank you.” He followed the officer out of the office and toward the door.

  “One last thing,” Officer Johnston said.

  “Yes?”

  “That card you gave us, the one saying you have a bullet in you.”

  Matt nodded. “It sets off metal detectors sometimes.”

  Johnston gave an understanding smile. “How did that happen?”

  “Hunting accident when I was a kid.” He touched his lower chest, just right of his sternum. “Doctors said it’d be worse to cut it out than to leave it in.”

  “But the lead?” He looked like he was about to say more, but thought better of it.

  “Copper jacketed. Doctors said I’m safe.” Like his name, the lie had been told so many times it might as well be true. Unlike his name, however, the silver slug was never forgotten.

  The officer bid him goodbye and Matt carefully loaded his belongings back into his car. Once in the driver seat, he pulled out his phone and sent a text to a number from memory, “On my way.”

  #

  Twenty-three miles later, he pulled into the parking lot of an abandoned grocery store. Circling around back, Matt steered the car past bits of trash and dingy potholes to where a powder blue box truck sat in an old loading dock. A dark Hispanic man stood near the rear, smoking a cigarette.

  Matt scanned the area. A cinderblock wall ran down one side of the alley, the building blocked the other. A subtle bend in the lot gave the benefit of being able to see a ways either direction, but not be seen from anyone on the street. There was no one around. He pulled his car up beside the truck and stepped out.

  The man sucked a hard drag, and then flicked the butt into a grease-sheened puddle. “I was beginning to wonder. Everything go all right?”

  “Fine, Cesar. You?”

  Cesar grinned, flashing golden teeth. “Just waitin’ on your slow ass.” He laughed and motioned Matt around to the rear of the truck.

  There, the Colombian removed a battered disk-shaped padlock from the latch and pulled the door open. Matt climbed in behind him and, after adjusting a mountain of shipping crates, cardboard boxes, and other debris, they withdrew a gray plastic footlocker and hauled it out.

  Matt looked around, making sure they were still alone, then drew a key from his pocket and unlocked it. Cracking the lid, he saw an old army blanket. He pulled it aside, unleashing a waft of leather and oil. He spied the black steel of his Ingram machine pistol, a half-dozen 30-round magazines loaded with silver, one mag of gold, a gallon jug of grayish powder, and a wide array of various jars, tools, hooks, books, blades, and other trinkets. It was all there. He closed the lid. “Good.”

  “I said you got nothing to worry about, my friend.” Cesar lit another cigarette.

  Matt opened his trunk and heaved the awkward box inside. They needed to go before someone saw them. “I know I can always count on you, man.” He pulled a thick fold of bills from his jacket and offered it out. “Three grand.”

  “I said you ain’t gotta pay me,” he said, taking the money. “Least not this much. Not after...” His gaze averted. “You know.”

  “Yeah, but I want to keep this strictly business. I don’t want to be burning any favors because sometime I might really need one. And that’s when I’ll call you.”

  The Colombian grinned. “You better.”

  The men gave their farewells and left; Cesar, west toward Vancouver, and Matt, north.

  #

  Thick trees grew along the winding road, hanging overhead and forming a tunnel through the forest. Matt, wanting to enjoy the cool air, rolled down the window and cocked his elbow out as he drove. Hours passed, and the number of little towns began to dwindle. Intersecting roads became fewer and fewer and less paved. His GPS showed him as a cartoon blue convertible ticking along a red line over a green background of nothingness.

  Red and orange streaked the sky as he pulled into the little town of Milton Hill. A sign outside of town boasted it as the Winner of the Red Leaf Award, whatever that was. He wondered if maybe little towns like this made up these awards just to put them on their signs. Milton Hill consisted of maybe six intersections, three blocks of quaint storefronts, two working gas stations, another that had been converted to a used car lot, a pizza joint that claimed to serve real Italian sausage, and a school. On the far side of town, Matt pulled into a gravel drive motel and rented a unit under the name Walter Franks.

  A few more of the cinderblock units were also occupied. One looked like vacationers, with kayaks and bikes strapped to their truck like escape pods. Two units over sat a gray Range Rover, its rear door open. A man with bushy, brown hair stood at the back of the SUV, his eyes seeming to study Matt. Matt looked at him, and the man’s gaze instantly fell away as he removed a flat, black case from the vehicle and closed the door. Matt’s attention moved to the black, and very obvious, unmarked police car sitting in front of another unit. Probably RCMP investigators for little Rachel Fidell and the high-foreheaded woman pictured with her not twenty miles from here. Hopefully, Matt would be done with his business, and Rachel and all the other victims avenged, before the Mounties even noticed he was there.

  Once in his room, it was straight to work. He flipped on the TV and his computer to see if the news had any updates on the investigation. Her family had announced that Rachel had been three months pregnant at the time of her death, a fact Matt had already guessed. Victims One and Three had been pregnant as well, although Victim Three, Anna Kurner, was the only one showing it. Of course, in none of the cases was the baby’s body recovered. Those were assumed to have been eaten by whatever scavengers had torn apart the bodies before their discovery. Same ones that ate their livers.

  To his relief, no new women had gone missing in the last four weeks, but that didn’t mean much. There’s always the hitchhiker, the lone traveler. Maybe no one had noticed it yet. Besides, aswangs didn’t have to feed every single month. Maybe its escapades had brought too much attention and it was laying low. Maybe it had left. Maybe it had hopped bodies and was now possessing some poor bastard whose soul it had marked thirty years ago and now living on the other side of the world. Matt could only pray that wasn’t the case.

  As the news blathered on about wars abroad, sports predictions, and some puff piece about a family of adorable raccoons living in an apartment complex, Matt retrieved several jars from his locker, then opened Dämoren’s case. One by one, he removed the spent primers from the eighteen shells, and using the intricate tools, set fresh ones in their place. He’d prepared the black powder back in Utah two weeks prior. Like everything with the sacred gun, each process was ceremonial. Flecks of his own dried blood had to be added to the mix, making each shot part of the shooter, part of him. Clay had always wondered if Matt’s unusual blood might cause issue with Dämoren, but the pistol handled it fine. The gun demanded the sacrifice, corrupted or not.

  From inside a red plastic box, Matt retrieved a gleaming silver slug. Intricate scrollwork covered the entire surface. A single word, written in tiny script, spiraled up the bullet. ‘Amen.’ The closing line to the gold-inlaid prayer etched up the revolver’s barrel. Like the powder, he’d cast the slugs down in Utah. Had Cesar not been able to get the trunk through the border, the Victorian silver in Matt’s possession would have been melted down to make new blessed bullets.

  The news show ended and Matt half-listened to an old Mel Gibson movie as he carefully measured and filled the shells wi
th powder, slipped them one at a time into the plier-like tools, etched with scripted blessings, and squeezed a silver slug into place. By the time Mel had busted a ring of coke-dealers, leapt off the roof of a downtown building, and survived an exploding house, Matt had reloaded all eighteen rounds. The last eighteen in the world.

  He loaded seven in Dämoren, then pulled on a nylon shoulder rig. Clay never liked the holster Matt designed. Said Dämoren preferred leather. Said dressing her in nylon was like putting her in a cheap dress.

  “She ain’t no whore,” the old man had grumbled. “She’s a lady. And the lady likes leather.”

  Clay insisted leather held the oil better, and that kept her slick. Matt didn’t know about all that, but in the six years Dämoren had been his, he never once felt the gun didn’t like his shoulder rig, leather or not. He pulled his jacket on, covering the gun as best could be expected, and headed out. Maybe he’d try some of that real Italian sausage. Tomorrow, he’d go to work.

  #

  The GPS didn’t even acknowledge the dirt road as Matt rumbled the car up the primitive, rock-strewn trail. Once, thirty years before, the road withstood trucks and heavy equipment. Now, between washouts and fir trees, some places barely let him through. The crumbling bricks of a ruined building, a house at Matt’s guess, peeked through the undergrowth. After nearly a mile the road widened into a white, gravel clearing. A sagging and broken chain link stretched end to end, venturing into the green forest on either side. Beyond it, angular sheet metal buildings, the color of rust and sand, jutted from the earth like the hulking remains of some half-buried battleship. Swirls of colorful graffiti covered every wall below eight feet. Faded black letters spelled, ‘Bullard Mining’, across the top of the main building.

  Matt pulled the car around, its nose facing the entrance road, and parked. He popped the trunk, grabbed a bottle of water from the console, and stepped out. A chirping bird hopped between the branches above, obviously angry at Matt’s presence. Circling around to the back of the car, Matt pulled off his leather jacket. Dämoren hung snugly beneath his left armpit. The bulletproof vest beneath his shirt made his lean frame appear stockier.