Damoren

by Seth Skorkowsky

  He opened the trunk and removed the Ingram. Its can-like suppressor was longer than the gun itself. He shoved one of the long magazines up the hollow handle, cocked a round, then pulled its green sling strap over his arm. Matt then removed an old policeman belt from the footlocker and put it on. Dämoren’s bronze-cased slugs filled most of the bullet loops. Matt slid two of the Ingram’s magazines, one gold and one silver, into the mag pouches. Automatically, his hands verified and adjusted his pepper spray, light, knife, a padded pouch for spent shells, and another for the powder.

  Setting his foot on the car bumper, Matt pulled up the leg of his jeans and velcroed a knife sheath to his ankle. The staghorn blade was more of a good luck charm than anything. He prayed the day would never come when it was his only defense.

  The bird above continued its tirade as Matt removed a red-capped spice shaker from the trunk. He popped the lid and sprinkled a ring of gray powder around the car. If the demon tried to run, the last place Matt wanted it was hiding in his back seat, or worse, destroying his car. Once done, he closed the lid and slid the glass jar into its belt pouch. He pulled his jacket back on, concealing the weapons, then closed the trunk.

  Matt picked up the plastic water bottle from the roof of the car and opened it, breaking the white tamper-proof ring. He took a tiny swallow, then set the bottle back down and removed a flat blue tube from his pocket, about the size of a pen cap. Carefully, he pressed against his left index finger and pushed its oval button. It clicked with a short moment of pain. A crimson bead of blood welled from his fingertip. Holding his finger just above the mouth of the bottle, Matt forced a few drops inside. The red droplets plumed and swirled as they hit the water. Once he’d squeezed seven or eight drops, Matt screwed the cap back on and shook the bottle hard, then held it up. The pink water swirled, but did nothing. Holding it out beside him, Matt slowly walked toward the abandoned mine.

  Warning signs clung to the old chain link, their original messages lost beneath rust and layers of spray paint. Not needing to pick the padlocked gate, Matt ducked through one of the several openings and continued toward the buildings. He navigated the rusted and decayed remains of equipment, searching for signs of the monster. Aswangs, like many demons, preferred to live in places with dark pasts. Places of great suffering. Mines were always popular. Most, especially the older ones, had their share of accidents and death. This one was no exception, but what had caught Matt’s attention over any of the other possible locations was not the history during its operation, but its more recent tragedies.

  After the mine had closed, it became a popular site for teenage parties. In the last twenty years, three teens had died here of drugs and alcohol. Two more were shot by a jealous ex-boyfriend. One, the girl, somehow survived a bullet to the head and spent several hours crawling down the gravel road to the highway where she eventually died. A sordid past like that would be irresistible for a demon seeking a lair.

  Matt neared the first building, a one-story shed with a sagging metal roof. He checked the bottle again. Nothing. He removed the spice shaker from his hip, flipped the lid, and sprinkled a line across the doorway before stepping inside. Broken bits of debris crunched beneath his feet as he made his way through the building. Someone had left an old mattress inside. Grungy stuffing and grass lined an animal nest chewed in through the side. His hand near Dämoren’s grip, he searched everywhere, even a small closet near the back, then left.

  Matt checked the bottle again. The pink water was unchanged. He pursed his lips. The demon had to be here. Nowhere else met all the requirements. What had he missed?

  Bypassing a blackened mound of burned tree limbs and charred bits of lumber, he made his way to the main building. Again, he shook out a strip of powder across the threshold before stepping through the open doorway.

  Dread permeated the dim building. Matt checked the water again. Still nothing, but the creeping tingle up his spine assured him that something terribly wrong had happened here. He drew the pistol from its holster.

  Light shone through several cracked and dusty windows into what he figured was once a cafeteria by the size of it. A glint of bright pink and white shone from a pile of refuse near the corner, its distinct lack of dust making it stand out. As he approached, he realized that it was a woman’s sneaker laying atop a torn and filthy pair of jeans. Brown smears, the color of dried blood, stained the light blue denim.

  Carefully, he pulled them aside to find a small figure of a young woman woven from bundled leaves and strips of grass. The hair, made of yellow, finer grass than the rest of her, was pulled back in a ponytail, except for short bangs in the front, which hung just above her eyes.

  Rachel Fidell. She had died here. The monster had devoured her unborn baby, killed her, then ate its fill of her before dumping the body for animals to fight over. Afterward, it had made the doll. Matt didn’t know why, it was just something they did.

  The bottled water was still unchanged. Matt scooped up the grass figure and jammed it into his jacket pocket. Later, he’d burn it along with any others he might find.

  Keeping Dämoren out front, he searched the rest of the cafeteria, but found nothing. He checked a few more rooms, sprinkling the gray powder across their doors once he was done, then moved on. Aswangs favored higher points to make their nests, but Matt wanted to be sure before turning his back to the first floor.

  Grimy metal stairs led to a catwalk above. Slowly, he followed them up, his footsteps making metallic pings on each step. Once at the top, he followed the walkway past several large bins rising from the floor below. Rusted chains hung from the ceiling like hideous vines. The walkway ended at a steel ladder leading further up. The rust-flecked bolts appeared secure. Matt holstered his pistol, pocketed the water bottle, and climbed.

  An alcove opened up to the right, near the top. Heaps of what looked like crumpled canvas covered the floor. The stink of rot came from somewhere behind the filthy folds. Matt looked up. Light peeked through the gaps in the trapdoor above. He checked the bottle again. Still pink. Holding tight to the cold bars with one hand, he stretched out until his foot found enough purchase on the landing. The concrete floor was thirty feet below. In one quick move, he swung over the gap and into the alcove.

  Bird feathers and bits of fur littered the lumpy canvas nest. Other objects lay strewn about as well. A silver watch. A few rings. A pair of green plastic-framed glasses. Anna Kurner had been wearing a pair just like them when she vanished.

  Matt spied a gray rectangle of corrugated tin, lying a little too intentionally placed among the chaos. Drawing Dämoren, he crossed the uneven floor and slowly lifted the flimsy metal. A red plastic file envelope. Blocky letters written across the front in black marker read ‘Matthew Hollis.’

  A knot of fear balled in his gut. He looked around, half-expecting to see the barrel of a gun pointed at him, maybe a red laser beam, but no one was there. Matt turned back to the package and read his name again. Of all the things that could have been under that scrap of tin, this was the one that he hadn’t prepared for. He holstered his weapon and picked up the envelope. Licking his lips, he unwound the white string from the plastic button holding the flap closed. Inside, he found a bundle of papers held together with black binder clips. A typed letter on thick paper rested on top.

  Dear Mr. Hollis,

  As you can see, we’ve been aware of you for some time. While we have always made it a point to not interfere with your activities, developments have arisen that have forced our hand into contacting you.

  Matt stopped reading and flipped the pages. The first page was a printout of a web article from three years ago, detailing a multiple homicide and arson outside of Atlanta. The bodies of nine young women, possibly prostitutes, living in an old farmhouse had been discovered. The remains of nearly a dozen more terribly mutilated victims had been found beneath the house. The story had made national headlines.

  Memories of Atlanta flashed through his mind. He turned the page to see copies of pol
ice photographs of the scene. Charred bodies, their limbs contorted into dance-like poses, lay sprawled out across a tarp. Closeups of bullet holes, still visible in their crinkled skin or punched through their blackened skulls. Matt’s fingers flipped faster. It was the biggest pack of werewolves he’d ever found. They operated a brothel outside the city. The things he saw, the bodies, the torture. He’d seen many horrors, but that house was seared into his mind forever, branded by the nightmares within. He’d sent those bitches to hell, even taking the last one down with the blade affixed beneath Dämoren’s barrel. Once finished, and whatever evidence of his presence removed, he’d burned it down. Police, the FBI, even private bounty hunters, hired by the girl’s families, all worked the case. Many, no doubt, still did. And now, one had found him.

  Without making it even a quarter through the packet, he jammed the pages back into the file. His finger fumbling, he tied it shut, then swung back to the ladder and hurried back down. Maybe they didn’t know he was here yet. Maybe they thought that he had killed Rachel Fidell and the other women. And where was the aswang? In his rush, he didn’t see the little curl of rusted metal peeling out from the ladder rung. It bit into his palm and Matt winced, clenching his teeth. Blood oozed freely, but it didn’t appear to be serious. Cursing, he continued down, leaving wet smudges on every other bar. No time to clean them now.

  Matt reached the catwalk and ran. He shot down the clanging stairs two at a time. How did they find me? No. That doesn’t matter now. He’d get back to the States, change his name, change his face. Right now, he just needed to get away.

  He glanced through the broken windows, but didn’t see anyone outside. No helicopters circled above, with men sliding down ropes beneath them. Gravel and shards of broken bottles crunched under foot as he hurried out of the building and across the yard toward the fence. He’d ducked through the torn chain link and started toward his car when he saw movement through the woods ahead.

  A gray vehicle rumbled up the gravel road. Matt recognized it as the Range Rover from the motel. Through the tinted glass, he made out two figures inside. The vehicle pulled up and stopped in the forty feet remaining between Matt and his car.

  Matt took a step back. There was nowhere to run. His thoughts automatically moved to the machinegun slung under his long jacket.

  The driver side door opened and an older man in a dark suit with no tie stepped out, his hands lifted, palms outward. “Don’t worry, Mr. Hollis.” His accent sounded German. “We don’t mean you any harm.”

  The passenger side door opened and the brown-haired man from the motel emerged, loosely holding a black and gold sword, its blade extending a hand-length before bowing forward in a long curve.

  “I am Max Schmidt,” the German said. “This is Allan Havlock and his sword, Ibenus. We are with the Valducans and only wish to talk with you.”

  Matt looked to the old man, then to his companion. The machinegun still pressed in his mind as a viable option. His gaze then moved to the strange sword. He’d seen one like that in a museum once. Egyptian; likely ancient. It was pristine. He’d never seen another holy weapon before.

  “Are you familiar with the Valducans, Mr. Hollis?” Schmidt asked. “Did Clay Mercer tell you about us?”

  Matt nodded. “Demon hunters. Kind of like Templars or something.”

  The German and his swordsman companion both gave pursed smiles, like they thought it was funny, but kind of offensive at the same time.

  “Something like that,” Schmidt said. “Descended from a holy order. Is that all he told you?”

  “No.” Matt drew Dämoren out from under his jacket. The men’s eyes locked onto the weapon. The hammer clicked three times as he cocked it back. He held the gun down at his side, just like Allan with his Egyptian sword. “He said you were dangerous and to stay the hell away from you.”

  The German nodded. His gaze moved from Dämoren and back to Matt. “I can’t say I blame him for telling you that. Under the circumstances at the time, it was true. Did Clay tell you that he was a member?”

  Matt’s eyes narrowed. “Never said anything about that.”

  “Clay was a brother for over twenty years before our disagreement. He was among the best.”

  “What disagreement?”

  Schmidt ‘s tall stature straightened a little higher. “He took in a boy, who not only was bitten by a fiend but showed multiple signs of demonic corruption.”

  “And you told him to kill me?”

  “Yes.”

  “And he refused, so you threw him out?”

  The old man shook his head. “He left of his own volition.”

  Matt chewed his lip, studying the two men. Their stone faces said nothing. “And now that Clay is gone, you still want me dead?”

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “Dämoren.” He nodded to the massive revolver. “It’s bonded to you.”

  “Bonded to me?”

  “Don’t pretend you don’t understand, Mr. Hollis,” Schmidt said with a knowing smile. “The bond with a holy weapon is unlike anything else. A love deeper, more selfless than anything.”

  Even as the old German spoke, Matt knew what he meant. Clay said he’d loved Dämoren more than his late wife, even more than himself. Matt’s infatuation with the weapon had started early. Even then, he’d known to keep that a secret from the old man as to not arouse jealousy. Only after Clay had died, and Matt inherited the widowed gun, did he fully understand the love of which Clay had spoken. “So what do the Valducan Knights want with me?” he asked, finally.

  “Only to talk. Recent events have made contacting you necessary. We’d hoped to catch you in Boulder, but you’d killed the lamia and left before we had arrived. Once we heard of the killings here, we came hoping to catch you. Mr. Havlock found and neutralized the demon two weeks ago. We’d begun to worry you weren’t coming.”

  “I was in Utah.” He pulled the red folder out from under his arm. “And if your group knows enough about me to fill this, why didn’t you just contact me instead of making me drive all the way up here?”

  Schmidt nodded and ran a finger over his neat moustache. “We have far more than that information about you, Mr. Hollis. Our duty is to protect the weapons.”

  “Then why the game?” Matt’s patience was running low. He’d driven a thousand miles and paid Cesar three grand to get over the border for nothing. Getting back to the States would cost the same, if not more, and he didn’t have that much. He’d have to liquidate antiques, maybe even sell some of Clay’s gold coins. Just the idea of that pissed him off even more.

  “Ah,” Schmidt said, as if somehow embarrassed. “Some of us wanted to see how you operated. How fast, and how quietly, before you were contacted.”

  “So you didn’t know? Wasn’t the fact I was in and out of Boulder before you even got your little game started, enough? If what you want is so important, shouldn’t that have been your test?”

  The German sighed and brought his hands together as if about to start a prayer. “I believe this meeting is starting very poorly, and I do apologize. Perhaps we can let emotions cool and go somewhere else to discuss this?”

  “Hell with you. Just tell me what you want and get it over with. Not unless you’re going to pay me back for how much your little test has cost me.”

  “Maybe a peace offering, then.” He slid a hand inside his suit jacket.

  Matt raised Dämoren, aiming at the German’s chest.

  The old man gave an assuring smile. “Relax, Mr. Hollis, this is an offering of trust.”

  Matt kept the pistol locked on Schmidt, his gaze watching both he and the swordsman for any sign of attack. “Slowly.”

  Schmidt withdrew his hand, careful and deliberate. Rolling his fingers upward, he held a small brown tube.

  “Where did you get that?” Matt asked, instantly recognizing the bronze shell.

  “Amsterdam,” he said, admiring the etched casing. “One of your predecessors lost it in 1938 before
fleeing to America.” His cold blue eyes turned back to Matt, still aiming the revolver. “You may have it. All we ask in return is to talk.”

  Matt regarded the old man and the priceless shell. He lowered Dämoren’s hammer and holstered the revolver. “Then let’s talk.”

  Chapter Three

  Matt gazed out of the window beside him, watching a logging truck drive past as the waitress set drinks onto the graffiti-coated table. Neon from the various beer signs covering the walls reflected up from the patches of lacquer still clinging to the worn tabletop.

  Schmidt had suggested the roadside restaurant as a location to continue their talk. “Public enough, so you won’t need to worry, but private enough to speak freely.”

  Matt followed them for forty-five minutes before coming to the Moose House, a quaint little roadhouse that served as the area’s gas station, eatery, and late-night bar. The two men had evidently become regulars in the weeks they had been waiting. One of the waitresses seemed real happy to see Allan, whose accent was British, Matt guessed, once the man finally spoke. As Schmidt had predicted, Matt’s temper had cooled significantly during the drive. The return of the long-lost shell, now safely nestled in one of the cutouts in Dämoren’s case, had been the greatest contributor to that. The fact the old man had freely offered the treasure before the conversation did a lot to calm Matt’s nerves. Now that it was with him, he felt it only fair to hear their story.

  “What’s in the shaker?” Allan asked, breaking the silence.

  “Huh?” Taken aback by the sudden question, Matt looked to the salt and pepper shakers on the table.

  “The powder. I saw you sprinkling it on your motel doorstep last night.”

  “Ah.” Matt gave a half smile. “Magic powder.”

  The Englishman’s brow furrowed.

  “Kosher salt, garlic, silver shavings, white oak, bone dust, ash, tobacco...” He recalled the ingredient list he’d read on the side of the plastic jug a thousand times. “Sulfur, dried wolfsbane, soil from the shores of Galilee, marble from a saint’s tomb, mandrake... Little bit of everything, really.”