Matt looked up and around, admiring the ornate stonework of the garage. He could make out what appeared to be boxes and stacked furniture stored in the old hay lofts above. “Nice place.”
Allan opened Ibenus’s case and put on a dark clamshell sheath. The stitching was open along the top two thirds of one side, allowing Allan to draw the curved khopesh. Following his lead, Matt opened his locker and removed his shoulder rig. He kind of wished he had Clay’s old holster of tooled leather and brass that hung low off his belt, rather than the plain black nylon.
“She’s a lady. And the lady likes leather.” Clay’s voice echoed in his head.
Their weapons in place, the two men shouldered their bags and headed out into the courtyard. As they neared the man twirling and swinging the bladed pole in mock combat, Matt recognized his gold and white attire as some form of gi. A younger man, maybe seventeen, stood nearby. His sharp features appeared to be Japanese.
“That is Takaira Susumu, and Riku his apprentice,” Allan said. “The naginata is Shi no Kaze. Theirs is the last existing samurai clan. Their sole existence is to protect Shi no Kaze, a duty they have performed for four hundred years, even after the official abolishment of the clans in the Nineteenth Century.”
“Are they Valducans?” Matt asked, watching the samurai deftly swing the long blade back and forth in a series of rapid steps.
“No. But the Takaira clan has been on good terms with us since after the Second World War when we helped smuggle out many of their relics during the American Occupation.” His voice lowered. “They are very proud and undoubtedly view joining us here as more of a favor than actual need for protection.”
They followed short stone steps up to a pair of large doors. Inside, Matt found himself staring into a massive floor to ceiling mirror. Pale green masks looked out from glass cases hanging on either side.
Matt stepped closer to one of the jade masks. Tingles of discomfort rippled through him as he drew near. While at first they seemed identical, with their bulging eyes and scowling mouths filled with fangs, they were different. One’s teeth curved outward, its short horns straight up. The other’s teeth jutted forward before a rippled tongue. “What are these?”
“Chinese mask demons,” Allan replied, stepping beside him. “They were bound to these masks in the Eighth or Ninth Century. They repel demons.”
“So they’re possessed? With demons inside them?” Matt took a step back. He felt their jade eyes boring into him. There was intelligence to them. Burning hatred.
“Yes. Nothing to worry about. Not unless you put one on. Their cases are alarmed and bullet proof.”
Matt nodded, trying to suppress the unease the masks gave him. “Do they work?”
“The alarms?”
“No, man, the masks. Do they repel demons?”
“Evidently. Never seen them face to face with one myself, but there are multiple accounts in the archives. Unfortunately the technique of binding one to these masks was lost long ago. They’re just amazing.”
“Fucking creepy is what they are,” Matt said, turning away. “We’re supposed to be killing those things not decorating with them.”
Allan shrugged. “Still, I’d like to try one of your blood compasses on one, just to know there’s something in there.” He motioned Matt to follow and they headed left, deeper into the manor. The passages smelled of wood and old smoke. More mirrors lined the halls, one before every barred window.
“So tell me,” Matt asked, eyeing one of the small cameras mounted near the ceiling. “Were you wondering if the masks would repel me?”
The Englishman hesitated, his hand resting on a jeweled, silver doorknob to another room. “No. I won’t deny there’s something unsettling about your abilities, but I don’t think you’re a demon.”
Matt smiled. “Thanks.”
“But I’m not exactly in the majority here. So just watch yourself.” He pushed open the door into a green-painted room. Old paintings stared down from the walls, overlooking several cushioned chairs, and carved wooden tables. A man with a two-day beard and tattoos running up his olive-tanned arms played billiards with a Latina woman, while a blonde woman sat nearby, reading a computer tablet. The haze of cigarette smoke hung in the air.
The blonde looked up from her tablet. “Allan, nice to see you again.” Her accent sounded Slavic, maybe Russian. “So this him, huh?” Her gaze moved to Matt partially hidden behind the Englishman.
Allan stepped aside. “Everyone, this is Matt Hollis from America and his gun, Dämoren.”
Matt, suddenly feeling a bit awkward at center-stage, just smiled. “Hello.”
“Matt.” Allan motioned to the pale blonde. A jeweled-studded sword hung at her side, a yellow tassel dangling from the tip of its curved scabbard. “This is Anya Jeliazkova protector of Baroovda.”
She extended a delicate hand. “A pleasure.”
“Good to meet you,” said Matt, shaking her hand.
“Anya joined shortly after I did,” Allan said, smiling. “Baroovda has been in the family since the Fourteenth Century.” He pointed to a painting of a bearded man in a turban holding the same curved sword.
Allan led him further into the room, closer to the dark pool table. “This is Luiza Moreira and that,” he gestured to the gilded saber at the dark-skinned woman’s hip, “is Feinluna.”
Luiza brushed a lock of black hair from her eyes and gave a hard smile. Her full lips were painted burgundy. “So you’re the famous gunslinger?”
“That’s me.”
She nodded as if to herself. “Welcome.”
“Finally, we have Doctor Malcolm Romero protector of Hounacier.” A horn-handled blade hung from the man’s belt, its short, wide scabbard of carved wood. It appeared more like a machete than sword.
“Good to meet you,” Matt said, extending his hand.
The man stepped closer, his hand out to meet Matt’s, then stopped. Rolling his arm over, he looked to a cobalt beetle tattooed on the back of his wrist. The image moved, seeming to crawl up his arm. Dropping his hand to the weapon at his side, Malcolm stepped back. “This man is possessed.”
Matt’s gut tightened. Three hunters in the room, four counting Allan. Anya, the blonde, was behind him. He caught her reflection in a mirrored case along the wall. She still sat fifteen feet away, but her posture had straightened. Tense. Luiza inched back, her expression calm, but cautious. Her hand rested on the golden saber hilt. Matt’s fingers itched for Dämoren’s ivory grip.
“He’s all right,” Allan said, his hand out between them. “Master Schmidt is aware of Matt’s condition. It’s okay.”
“The fuck it’s okay!” Malcolm took another step back, his dark eyes locked on Matt, sizing him up. “He’s corrupted.”
“He’s safe, Mal,” Allan said, his tone steady. “He’s passed every test, even the masks. I’ve watched him kill two demons. He saved my life. I trust him. Schmidt trusts him.”
“Tat doesn’t lie. He’s demon-marked.”
“The masks don’t lie either. A holy weapon has bonded to him. None of us can argue when a weapon has made its choice.”
Matt wondered what would have happened if he had mentioned how unsettled the masks had made him. Still watching the three hunters, including Anya in the mirror, he opened his hands out to his sides. If anyone made a move it wouldn’t be him. If they did, he could draw Dämoren from the rig and fire in under half a second.
Malcolm’s jaw tensed.
“Don’t trust me?” Allan asked. “Think the old man and I are his familiars? Give me the test then. Make sure he isn’t controlling us.”
The hunter gave a moment’s glance to Luiza, then Anya. With his right hand still on his weapon, Mal opened his left hand wide, revealing a heavy-lidded eye tattooed in red on his palm. He thrust the open palm toward Matt and Allan.
Matt stood frozen, wondering what was supposed to happen.
Allan gave a dramatic shrug. “Well?”
Malcolm stepped forward
, his arm extended straight, tattoo firmly before him.
Nothing happened.
“We’re not your enemies, Mal,” Allan said.
Malcolm’s lips tightened. He lowered his hand. “You’re demon-bound,” he said to Matt. “I know it. You so much as give me half a reason and I’ll end you.”
Matt’s lips curled into a small half-smile. At least he knew where the scruffy hunter stood. “Noted.”
“Come on,” Allan said motioning him to follow.
Matt looked to the two women and gave a short nod. “It was good to meet you.” Then he followed the Englishman up a staircase and into a long room filled with cases and old books.
“The hell was that about?” he asked, closing the door behind him.
Allan shook his head. “Sorry. Kinda hoped that would have gone better.”
“What was up with those tattoos?”
“Mal spent several years down in Jamaica, Haiti, that area. Received his Doctorate of Anthropology studying Voodoo and mysticism. Said he got the first one from a witchdoctor. Won’t say where the others came from. He just picks them up here and there somehow. I understand his predecessor was the same way.”
“What about the others?”
“Luiza’s Brazilian. Sword of hers came over with the Conquistadores.” Allan led him past the shelves of leather-bound tomes and cases of dusty relics. “Been in her family forever. She’s a third generation Valducan. Tough as shit.” He bent at a small cabinet and opened a squeaky door. He removed a green bottle of Scotch and a pair of glasses. “Anya’s Romanian. Schooled in Florence. Good artist and outstanding programmer. We found her hunting in Rome. We’d thought Baroovda lost for the last two-hundred years, but it evidently had made it into her family.” Allan unstoppered the bottle and poured a healthy shot into each glass. “She’s been helping me scan, translate, and organize all the old books. She’s been wonderful. Practically lives in here.” He offered a glass, which Matt took.
The smooth whiskey tingled as it went down, warming Matt’s throat. He looked around at the narrow room, resembling both a museum and a library and smelling that mixture of dust and age found in both. Paintings of men, presumably members long passed, covered the walls. Turning around, a picture on the wall caught his eye. A man dressed in a flat hat and a long, tan coat stood, his hand resting on a wide-bladed sword before him. Tiny red stones ran down the blade. Its white pommel capped with a pair of bronze wolf’s heads shone beneath his gloved fingers.
“Holy God,” Matt uttered. “Dämoren.”
“That’s right.” The Englishman sipped his drink.
Matt suddenly realized several of the other portraits on the wall also featured the same sword, each from a different time and in other men’s hands. Other men who’d loved the weapon as he did. “I’d never seen what she looked like before. She’s bigger than I’d imagined.”
“Look there, then.” Allan pointed to a narrow case below the paintings. Framed sketches on brown paper, featuring various angles and cutaways of the holy revolver covered the back of the top shelf. Little scribbles and numbers noting measurements and notes surrounded the drawings. “That’s the original designs from after she was broken.”
Matt peered at the old drawings, then to the modest collection of mushroomed silver slugs circled before it. Little yellowed tabs with hand written dates indicated the year each bullet was fired. A tiny circle, absent of dust, denoted where the shell Schmidt had given him had once sat.
“Dämoren’s the only holy weapon to be rebuilt after being broken,” Allan said. “None of the others could be saved.”
“My baby’s got a will to live,” Matt said, stooping to see the photos on the lower shelf. One showed a man with slick-parted hair and a hideous striped sweater holding the revolver beside a younger man with curly hair and sideburns. He grinned, recognizing Clay before seeing the little name card verifying his old mentors identity. Beside it stood another picture, this one showing Clay older, maybe mid-thirties. Two men stood posing proudly beside him, one with a broadsword, the other with a mace. Matt peered at the slender man with the sword. “Is that Schmidt?”
“They were once close.”
“I had no idea,” Matt said, staring at the younger, clean-faced Austrian smiling beside Clay. He blames me for taking his friend away.
“Dämoren’s been with the Valducans since the Fourteenth Century.” Allan took another sip. “That makes her more of a senior member than any of us and most of the surviving weapons.”
“So what does that make me?”
The Englishman grunted. “It makes you alive. As long as she remains yours, the Order has no choice but to honor her decision.”
Matt chuckled. “I can live with that.”
“If you’re interested,” he said, almost shyly. “I can show the records we have on Dämoren’s exploits.”
Standing, Matt gazed back up at the painted images of Dämoren’s former owners. Her lovers. He couldn’t help but feel a kinship with them. “I’d love to.”
From the journal of Sir Ernest Burrows, 1873
19 April - It has now been three weeks since Dämoren, my sacred charge, was broken, smashed by a vampire’s axe. I have wished the fiend’s blow had struck me dead in her place, saving me the torment and humiliation of failure.
I would be a liar to say that I have not considered taking my own life. Surely damnation awaits me for my sin, and I accept it. I have held my pistol to my head and prayed for the courage to end it, but in that, too, I have failed. The sword is broken.
I have gathered her shards, unsure what to do with them. I may be mad—no sacred blade has ever survived such destruction—but I still feel my maiden’s life within her. If Dämoren still lives, I must protect her. I must atone for what I have done. I must find a way to mend her.
23 April - I have just experienced a marvelous and most curious dream. In it, I stood again on that stone wall, the vampire charging me. I raised Dämoren to defend myself, but instead of a sword, Dämoren had assumed the form of a pistol. I shot, unleashing the fiend’s Hellfire in a blast of smoke. I know this was no dream, but a vision, a message from my maiden telling me what I must do.
9 May - I have arrived in Birmingham and booked stay in the Bemore Hotel. Despite the rain, I immediately ventured to the Gun Quarter. While I found several impressive pistols, none felt as the one in my dream. There are many smiths here, the finest in the Empire. I have but to find the right one.
11 May - While visiting the Proof House today I examined several displays. There I beheld the most incredible of inventions, a revolving pistol with a sturdy twelve-inch cutlass blade affixed below the barrel. The eleven-inch blade section that had been Dämoren’s tip would be ideal for this. The balance itself was front-heavy, but I imagine a pommel counterweight might solve this. This pistol is so akin to the one in my vision, it must be from the same man.
I inquired as to the weapon’s creator and was told it came from a William Watson, a most reputable smith and inventor from London.
Chapter Five
Matt sat upright in bed, the laptop propped up on his legs, memories of past lives filling his head. Dim light peeked through the shuttered windows. The faint sounds of footsteps and voices echoed through the waking house. The time in the bottom corner of the screen read 6:32. His body however, told him it was closer to midnight. After going to bed early the day before, he had awoken at two o’clock with a stopped up nose and unable to coerce himself back to sleep.
After his cold reception from Jean and deathly warning from Malcolm, Matt figured wandering the house alone at that hour probably wasn’t the best of ideas. He had spent the last few hours reading some of Dämoren’s exploits that Allan and Anya had transcribed. While most were dry accounts of monster attacks and methods used to track and exterminate them, one hunter, a seventeenth century swordsman named Sir Victor Kluge, was a true storyteller. Kluge’s flair for dramatic prose read more like an action novel documenting his adventures across Eu
rope. Once finished with an especially exciting story of Kluge battling a nest of vampires in Greece, Matt closed the laptop, pulled on Dämoren’s shoulder rig, and ventured out into the house.
Outside, fiery hues of orange and red streaked the morning sky as the sun peeked over the hills, casting long shadows through the valley. Matt stared out one of the windows overlooking the eastern vineyards when he noticed Luiza, the Brazilian huntress, jogging down a narrow road between vine rows. Some real exercise after the past few days of travel sounded like a good idea, but the pressure clogging his sinuses told him otherwise. Maybe after a hot shower and some breakfast, he’d feel up to it. First, he needed to figure out where in the hell the kitchen was.
He explored deeper into the house, past several dark doors he assumed were more bedrooms. Paintings and old photographs decorated the walls, and Matt found himself wondering where Victor Kluge’s portrait might be. He’d have to ask Allan whenever he found him. Voices came from outside one of the tall windows, and Matt looked down into the courtyard where several people buzzed around a white van. A black woman with tight braids, and a lanky man who could double as a scarecrow in his off-time, talked to Anya and a gray-haired man with a cane. A hulking guy with the type of long blonde hair most often seen on a romance novel loaded boxes into the back of the vehicle.
“They’re leaving for Barcelona,” said a soft voice.
Jumping, Matt spun to see a dark-skinned man with a neatly trimmed, black beard standing beside him.
“Sorry,” he said, hiding his surprise. “I didn’t hear you come up.”
The man grinned, revealing a mouth of white teeth. “I get that a lot.” His voice sounded British. “I’m Behrang.” He offered his hand. “You may call me Ben.”
“Matt Hollis.” They shook hands.
Ben turned, showing a curved sword at his hip. A golden crescent moon formed the sword’s pommel. “This is Khirzoor.”
Damoren Page 7
