Damoren

by Seth Skorkowsky

  When they stopped in Winnipeg to refuel, he had hoped he’d have a chance to get out. Maybe take a few minutes to enjoy fresh air. Schmidt said they didn’t have time, and that the air on a tarmac wasn’t the least bit fresh at all. So Matt had stayed on board, and watched the world through the little window beside him, his fingers fidgeting with the ancient and grimy ashtray built into his armrest.

  The cockpit door opened and Allan made his way down the center aisle. The pink lines on his face had nearly faded. Gauze bandages wrapped his neck and wrists like some sort of mummy. A few red welts, covered in yellowed scabs and slick with antibiotic cream, peeked out, running down his fingers. He nodded to the screen in Matt’s lap. “Pretty gruesome stuff.”

  “Yeah.” Matt glanced back to the closed door. “He all right alone up there?”

  “Schmidt?” Allan snorted, taking the seat beside him, across the aisle. “He’ll call me if he needs me. I’ll take the controls once we hop through Quebec.”

  Matt nodded, trying not to imagine the old man having a heart attack or something while manning the controls. He clicked back to one of the images, a close-up of what appeared to be sharp-edged letters within a nine-pointed star and half-circle. “You know what these mean?”

  “Nope. We think it might be some sort of ward, possibly a summoning.”

  “I found a cult in Louisiana once. Crazy fuckers.” Matt tapped the screen. “Looks similar to some things they’d written inside a barn.”

  “Demon worshipers?”

  Matt nodded. “They’d kidnapped a girl. Sacrificed her while trying to invoke some monster. Don’t think they really knew what they were doing.”

  “I never really understood demon worshipers.”

  “Why?”

  “A demon has to possess a host. Who would willingly allow that?”

  Matt shrugged. “They might not understand what it is. Maybe they think they’re getting the power and not the entity. Maybe they just don’t care. Either way, if they do it right, it lets one into our world.”

  “You think that’s where the new monsters are coming from?” Allan asked.

  “Sure.”

  Allan made a see-saw motion with his head and grunted. “Maybe, but there’s a lot of new breeds. These killings have happened all over the world. That’s a lot of people giving themselves to possession. A lot of very organized people for it to be worldwide.”

  “So where do you think they’re coming from?”

  Allan gave an embarrassed smile and glanced away. “I think they’re forcing their way into our world.”

  Matt’s brow rose. “How?”

  “Well, used to be, people believed that a person didn’t become a demon because one bit them. They saw it as a scourge on the wicked. Like a murderer became a vampire, or someone who was just so full of sin, the entity entered them. Wendigos, for example...” He paused, looking like he wished he could suck the words back.

  “What about them?”

  “They were people that were usually kicked out of their tribe. Starving, angry, they transformed into these emaciated monsters with insatiable appetites.”

  “Clay told me about spontaneous possession. Said if you killed the body of a demon that didn’t have any other souls they’d marked, they just kinda floated around, waiting for the right moment.”

  “Exactly.” Allan nodded, running his fingers through his dark hair. “So what if there’s all these demons just floating around, been there for God knows how long, waiting for the right time and it’s now? What if these cult markings aren’t human worshipers, but demons calling even more demons?

  “Like the moon and stars are lined up right and they’re just forcing themselves through, then widening the door for their friends to follow?”

  “Something like that.”

  Pursing his lips, Matt glanced out the window. Blue nothingness. Clouds. He could just make out green at the bottom. “Personally I like the idea of demon worshipers better. I can’t shoot the planets and stars.”

  Allan chuckled. “Just a theory.” He touched his gauze-wrapped neck.

  “I’m not saying it’s wrong. I just hope to shit it is.”

  #

  The plane hopped twice more through Canada, before finally beginning its Atlantic crossing. Relinquishing the controls, Schmidt headed to the back for some rest, and insisted Matt join Allan in the cockpit to keep him company for the long stretch.

  Matt sat in the padded seat, his hands in his lap, afraid he might bump the stick up between his knees, or one of the dizzying number of controls. Huge gray headphones covered his ears, muting the plane’s drone. Outside was dark. Blackness. He tried not to think of the endless ocean beneath them. Yet the horrible fantasy that something would happen, something rendering Allan incapable of piloting, and leaving him to somehow man the controls, kept playing through his mind. The jolting turbulence was worse at the front, and each bump and shimmy fueled his imagination.

  “That’s a pretty cool trick you do with Ibenus,” he said, breaking the latest mental scenario. This one involved freezing in the North Atlantic with a severed leg. “How does it work?”

  Allan shrugged. His voice came in through the headphones. “I just swing and step. Nothing to it.”

  “How far can you go like that?”

  “Just a couple steps. Not far, but enough to keep a demon off me.”

  “Or a shooter.”

  The Englishman chuckled. “That, too.”

  “I’d like to check it out sometime, if you don’t mind. I’ve never seen another holy weapon before.”

  Allan’s face tensed. He licked his lips, and grinned, turning his head toward Matt. “No problem. Mind if I shoot Dämoren?”

  A sharp pang shot through Matt’s gut. Anger mixed with insult. His jaw tightened.

  Allan laughed. “Not that easy is it? It’s like admiring another man’s wife. Innocent enough until he says he’d like to shag yours.”

  “Yeah.” Matt grinned, his jealousy melting. “Never mind. Sorry about that.”

  “Don’t worry. I did the same thing when I first hooked up with the Order. Thought Marcus was going to take my head off when I’d asked him.”

  “Marcus?”

  Allan nodded, running a hand over the bandages at his neck. “One of the knights who showed me the ropes. Big guy. Had this Norse axe.” He paused. “He was among the ones killed in Bulgaria.”

  Matt remembered the crime photos, wondering which of the mangled bodies was Allan’s friend. His blood had made the streaked glyphs, and dogs had chewed his corpse. “I’m sorry.”

  Allan only nodded.

  Minutes passed.

  “So,” Matt said, breaking the silence. “How did you get into this line of work?”

  Allan smiled. “Still nervous about flying?”

  “Just answer the question.”

  “Fine.” He lifted a water bottle from a holder beside his seat and took a swig. “My great-great-grandfather was an Egyptologist, which is really just a polite term for grave-robber.”

  “Huh?”

  “Well, at the time Egyptian artifacts were very popular, and the prospect of pharaohs’ hoards buried under the sand was very enticing. So he made several expeditions down, and became quite wealthy stocking museums and private collections with the treasures.” He tipped the plastic bottle to his lips again, then put it back into the holder.

  “During his last expedition, in 1903, they discovered a hidden temple near Thebes. It was dedicated to Horus, a hawk-headed god.” Allan made a beak-like gesture in front of his face. “Inside they found a trove of artifacts. Priceless. They split the treasure up and took it back to England. He sold some, but kept several of the more impressive pieces for his collection, including Ibenus.

  “Years later my father’s uncle inherited the estate. We used to go out to the country to visit every summer. And as early as I can remember, I was fascinated with the sword. It was weathered. Hadn’t slain a demon in three thousand years, but I
was entranced.” Allan gave a toothy smile. “When I was twelve I picked the lock to its case. Uncle caught me playing, swinging Ibenus around. Wonder I didn’t break anything. I thought he was going to kill me. Really did. That was the last time I was allowed near the antique room. Then, when I was seventeen, my uncle passed away. His estate was split amongst the family, but he willed me Ibenus. That, and the cost of an Egyptology degree at Liverpool.”

  Matt shrugged. “Doesn’t sound too bad.”

  “I took fencing. Specialized in saber. I tried to dedicate myself to my studies, but became more and more distracted.”

  “With what?”

  “Vampires. Werebeasts. The occult. I started courses on folklore. Spent more and more time practicing my swordsmanship. It began dominating my dreams. I was obsessed.”

  Matt gave an understanding nod. “She bonded with you.”

  “Yeah.” Allan let out a long sigh. The sound of it whooshed in Matt’s headphones. “It was like puberty, but instead of discovering my cock and girls, all I wanted to do was kill a monster with Ibenus.”

  Matt laughed. “Dämoren did the same thing with me. She was Clay’s, but I was completely enthralled with her. Learned pretty quick not to let him catch on. Like you said, it’d be like cheating on him with his wife.”

  The Englishman turned his head, his brow creased. “She bonded with you while still with Clay?”

  “Uh-huh. Why?”

  “Just never heard of that before. The weapons are very committed to their owners.”

  “Nothing happened,” Matt said with a dismissive wave. “Maybe she was just flirting me up, letting me see what my future held. Kinda like the bright spot ahead. One day, she’d be mine, and I’d kill every damn demon there was with her.” He licked his lips. “So you telling me my gun’s got a wandering eye?”

  “No,” he laughed, turning back to the controls. “Every weapon is unique. Not just their form, or powers they might have, but...personalities. I just find it fascinating.”

  “So you think they’re alive?”

  “Well, alive-ish maybe. I mean, why not? You refer to Dämoren as a she. You know they can bond with people. That’s intelligence isn’t it? I think, therefore I am.”

  “I’ve called my car a she before, too.”

  “True but...” Allan bit his lip. “But with Dämoren you mean it.”

  Matt nodded. “Yeah. Clay used to say she had a soul. An angel that lived within her. That true?”

  “Don’t know. There’s a lot of different theories.”

  “Like what?”

  “Well, some believe that the power comes from pure faith. Like when they made the weapon, they had so much faith in it, that the blacksmith maybe put some of himself in there. Or maybe the power of God. But not all weapons that were intended to be holy weapons are. It isn’t that easy. There’s a lot of gilded and jeweled blades which were utter disappointments.”

  The plane shuddered and Matt gripped the armrest. “Have you tried?” he asked, his lips barely moving.

  “Not me personally, but Valducans have tried several times over the years. I’ve found record of over seventy attempts. In all those times, we’ve made two. Two in eight hundred years. However, other people have made holy blades in that time, people that didn’t know any of the prayers and techniques that had worked before. They just made them. And if asked to do it again, they couldn’t.”

  “Any ideas why it doesn’t work?”

  Allan shook his head.

  They flew in silence for several minutes. The engines’ drone wormed back into Matt’s consciousness. He looked out the window again. A few stars glinted through the darkness, not as many as he’d hoped. Matt leaned closer to the glass, looking down. A path of silver moonlight reflected off the black ocean below, stretched out like some endless marble floor.

  “You never finished your story,” Matt said, settling back into his seat. “So how’d you get involved with the Valducans?”

  “When I was twenty, farmers had reported a monster lurking outside Greasby, killing their sheep. They described a huge black dog, like the Black Shuck or something. Press called it the Beast of Wirral, but no one paid it much mind. Then the body of a girl was found in a bog. Some animal had attacked her. Of course some blamed the Beast of Wirral, but not many.”

  “So you went looking for it?”

  Allan nodded. “Yeah. Armed with a flashlight, a motorcycle jacket, and Ibenus in a beat-up DJ case I found in pawn, I spent two weeks creeping around farms and moorland. I started missing lectures, my marks were plummeting. I thought I might be going mad. Then one night it found me.”

  “What was it?” Matt asked

  “Hellhound; a kind of werewolf, really. I had just crossed a farmer’s fence onto a dirt road, when I heard it howl.” He gave an exaggerated shiver. “Like an idiot, I pulled Ibenus out and headed toward it. I’d passed a hillock when I saw its red eyes in the shadows. It was huge. Massive. Like a small horse. I don’t think I’ve ever been so scared in my life. It charged at me and leapt. I swung, trying to block it, and bam, I was a meter away. Ibenus had never done that before. It came again, and this time I blinked to its other side and brought my sword down right into its flank. Legends had said a hellhound’s wail could sour milk and cause a miscarriage.” He nodded. “I’d believe it. Unholy sound. It staggered back, then turned toward me. I blinked closer, and split its head in one blow.

  “I hadn’t been ready for the fire. Brilliant blue flames. Then Ibenus changed. The corroded metal mended. It became as new. The leather I’d wrapped around her handle split open as the ancient wood beneath grew back. Bloody amazing.” He paused. “Then I saw the burning dog was becoming a woman. Naked, face cleaved open, and there I was, holding a fucking sword above a corpse.”

  Matt sighed. It had taken him years before he could handle seeing the body after a demon kill. Sometimes, it still got to him. “What’d you do?”

  “I freaked. Killing a monster is one thing, but murder, prison. Thought about burying her, but what then? I just got the hell out of there. Went home. Police found the body the next day. I swore I’d never do anything like that again. But Ibenus had me. Month later, I’m in Chinatown looking for a succubus.”

  “You find it?”

  “No, but Marcus found me. Valducans recruited me, and I’ve been with them since. That was four years ago.”

  “You finish school?”

  Allan shook his head. “No, but I’ve been leading the project to convert the Valducan library to digital. Learned a lot. Lot more than anything school could have done.”

  “Like what?”

  “Everything. Lore, demon-types, histories. There’s a lot of stuff they’ve packed away. Like, do you know why silver hurts some like vampires and werewolves?”

  Matt shook his head. “Why?”

  “They’re deceptive creatures. That’s essentially their power. Silver is the metal of mirrors, so it hurts them. It reflects what they really are. That’s why vampires abhor mirrors.”

  “Why don’t werewolves, then?” Matt asked, his brow furrowed. “They don’t give a damn about them.”

  Allan rubbed his bandaged neck. “Well...maybe because werewolves are more physical. Vampires are more spirits. It’s why a vampire can continue inhabiting a body even after it has died. They aren’t as tied to the flesh as a werebeast.”

  “OK, then. What about gold or iron. Rakshasa’s are masters of deception. Silver just pisses them off.”

  “It’s a different kind of deception. Gold is highly reflective. It doesn’t corrode. They need something more powerful than silver.”

  “But gold won’t kill a vampire.”

  The Englishman shrugged. “It’s just a theory,” he said, his tone surrendering.

  “Well,” Matt said. “Best one I’ve heard so far.”

  #

  They landed late the next day at a tiny airport in Southern France. A tall man with hair so blonde that it bordered on white picked them up in a
sedan the color of oiled leather.

  “Jean, this is Matthew Hollis,” Schmidt said to the driver in French. “Clay Mercer’s student. Matthew, this is Jean.”

  “Good to meet you,” Matt said, holding a heavy duffle over one shoulder and clutching Dämoren’s wooden case under his other arm.

  Jean gave a terse smile. His dark sunglasses stared back with cold indifference.

  “Jean is protector of Lukrasus, and is one of our finest knights,” Schmidt said proudly.

  Matt smiled back at the white-haired hunter, then loaded his gear into the car. Not all of their baggage could fit in the trunk, and he and Allan constructed a makeshift wall of bags and suitcases in the backseat. They held it up between them as Jean drove. Matt held Dämoren’s case in his lap, his shoulder pressing against the precariously stacked luggage as he stared out at the rolling hills. Picturesque houses of wood and stone sat perched above the lush farmland and vineyards. Ancient low stone walls draped in moss divided the farms. After forty minutes they turned up deeper into the hills and came to a large chateau nestled in a valley.

  Passing through an arched gate they entered a wide courtyard. Large gray blocks formed the corners of the imposing brick building, three stories high. An Asian man in gold and white stood in the courtyard twirling a long pole with a curved blade on one end. Jean pulled into a red brick off-building, likely a barn in a previous life, but now a garage with nearly a dozen other vehicles housed inside, and parked in a vaulted alcove.

  “If you want to wear Dämoren in here,” Schmidt said stepping out of the sedan, “you may. We are holy knights, protectors of God’s weapons. We wear them with pride and to ensure their security. However,” his blue eyes hardened, “if it is ever unholstered outside your room, it will be considered a threat. Understood?”

  “Understood.”

  “Allan will show you around and to your room. I hope you find our home to your liking.” He turned and walked toward the manor, Jean in tow, carrying the old man’s bags.