Matt’s brow creased. “Khirzoor. That’s the Arabian blade from the crusades?”
“Turkish,” he said with a smile. “But, yes.”
Matt couldn’t help but feel a sense of wonder at seeing the ancient weapon. It was true history and also, in a way, a celebrity. “This.” He lifted his arm to show Dämoren’s ivory and bronze grip jutting from its holster. “Is Dä—”
“Dämoren,” Ben said, finishing the sentence. “I have heard of it. And of you. Your reputation is well known.”
A tinge of apprehension slithered in Matt’s stomach. “Well, I hope it’s a good one.”
Ben stood silent for a moment. His lips tightened, as if trying to choose his words. “You are a very accomplished hunter.”
“Thank you.” Eager to break the sudden tension, Matt nodded back toward the window. “What’s in Barcelona?”
“There’s been reports of monsters. The older gentleman is Master Alex Turgen, one of the elders. The black woman is Natuche. She protects Krayaf and is leading the team. Anya, the blonde woman, and Ramón, the skinny man, are Librarians. Ramón isn’t the most experienced knight, but he’s the authority on demonic rites. They’re hoping he might find some clues about the murders.”
“Does Turgen lead the Valducans?” Matt sniffed his clogged nose.
“No. Not...officially. He’s a senior knight, and his word carries a lot of weight.”
Matt eyed the old man. His right hand, the one without the cane, moved quick, animated, as he spoke to Natuche. “So he’s like Schmidt, a former hunter?”
“Ah, similar. But more...diplomatic.”
Less of an ass, you mean. “And the Librarians, they’re the ones in charge of the archives? Like Allan?”
“Yes, but also much more than that. They search old stories and records, finding long lost holy weapons. They also keep track of, um...independent hunters.”
Matt nodded. “Like me.”
“Like you.” Ben looked out at the knights loading the van and sighed, his gaze lingering on Natuche. “Have you eaten?”
“Not yet. Haven’t found the kitchen.”
“Well, then,” he gestured down the hallway, “let me show you.”
Matt followed him down a flight of stairs and into a blue-plastered room with several tables, two of which stretched the length of the right side. A pitcher of milk and another of some red juice rested atop a bar on the back wall beside some fruit and various condiments. It reminded Matt of something he’d see in a hotel or bed and breakfast.
A big man in a bright orange shirt and a gray flat cap, like newsies wore in old movies, leaned his head out an open doorway. “Mornin’, Ben.” His accent sounded like a mixture of Australian and Irish. “Whose yer friend?” It sounded like he said freend.
“Tom,” Ben said. “This is Matt, protector of Dämoren.”
Tom’s mouth opened into almost a shocked smile. “Ah, the shootah!” He extended a large hand. White scars crisscrossed part of his palm and across onto the back, like thick spider webs. His pinky finger was nothing more than a wrinkled nub.
Trying not to react to the gruesome wound, Matt shook it. “Good to meet you.”
“Right. You got any allergies, any of that?”
Matt gave a sniffle, then shook his head. “Nothing food-wise.”
Tom nodded and motioned to one of the tables. “Right. Just have a seat. Ye want coffee?”
“Coffee sounds good.”
“Ben?” he asked the dark-skinned hunter.
“Please, and I’ll just have some fruit, thank you.”
The two men helped themselves to the bar. Matt made a plate with some cheese and sliced meats, while Ben picked toast and some yogurt. A few minutes later Tom came back with a pair of coffees. Matt couldn’t help but notice a slight limp in the man’s walk. He sipped his coffee, which was really just a cup of espresso and milk, but it was the best Matt had ever tasted.
“So tell me,” Matt said, folding a thin circle of meat onto a cheese slice. “Are all the Librarians also hunters, or are there any that are just full time?”
Ben sipped his coffee. “They are all knights. Some are former. Sonu, my old mentor, is in India. He’s looking after some of our interests there while helping with research. Mikhail is still a student. Although,” he added, his voice regretful, “his mentor, Julius, was killed not long ago and his weapon destroyed. But soon, when Mikhail is ready, a weapon will choose him.”
“What about you? Are you a full-time hunter?”
“No,” Ben chuckled. “No one is what you would call a full-time hunter. We all have other duties. I, for instance, am an accountant. I handle the Order’s books for the vineyard here, as well as our other properties and income.”
“Like what?”
Ben ran a finger across his bearded chin. “We have different properties across the EU, some in Africa, even in the Americas. Some is used for farms, or leased to tenants. We’re planning to build a wind farm in Chile. The income from that should help us a great deal. My job is to keep the Valducans’ anonymity. Mask where the money goes. With it, we can afford this house, fuel for the autos and airplane, stock the hospital. Even a bit of pay for ourselves.”
Matt ate another bite of cheese and meat, visualizing the Valducan’s web. Money in his profession was a rarity. His only real job had been antiques. Clay had taught him the tricks. How to find them, what to look for, how to buy and sell. It wasn’t much. Not for his expenses. The rest of his income had come from demons or their victims. Jewelry, petty cash, anything he could move quickly. He didn’t see it as stealing. Not really, anyway.
‘Think of it as a service charge,’ Clay had told him. ‘You freed their souls. Avenged ‘em.’
Tom stepped out of the kitchen and set a plate down before Matt. “Ere ya go.”
Matt stared at the golden, triangular omelet steaming before him. He’d expected something more like scrambled eggs and soggy bacon. “Wow. Thank you.”
“Try it.”
Even through his stuffed nose, Matt could smell the buttery aroma. He cut off a corner and slipped into his mouth. “Delicious.”
The burly cook gave a proud nod. “Right. You just let me know if you need anything.” He sauntered back through the kitchen door. The cuff of his pant leg lifted slightly with each limped step, revealing a dull silver rod jutting from Tom’s shoe.
Ben peeled the foil lid off his yogurt and began to eat.
“Tom,” Matt said, his voice low. “What happened to him?”
The hunter’s dark eyes darted back toward the kitchen. “He was a knight. Two years ago, he was mauled by an itwan.” He seemed to read Matt’s blank face. “They have a corrosive venom, like acid. He managed to kill the beast, but...”
“Jesus.”
“Yes. So now he stays here. His sword, Eslarin, is now bonded with Yev, another knight.”
Matt sighed. The man’s injuries were tragic enough but imagining how it must feel for him to see his sword, his holy weapon in another man’s hands, that it had chosen another over him because he was no longer capable, that was somehow worse. “I couldn’t do it.”
“Nor I.”
After a few minutes, Malcolm walked into the dining room, accompanied by a man with short, coppery hair. A thick-bladed sword hung on his hip. Malcolm glanced at Matt then away. “Good morning, Ben.”
“Good morning,” Ben replied. “And to you as well, Colin.”
Colin only grunted.
Matt finished his omelet, as the two men talked to Tom. “You said you have a hospital?”
Ben gave a little shrug. “More of a clinic, really. Colin oversees it. No big surgeries or operations. Mostly stitching wounds, removing spines, or claws, or the occasional bullet. You can probably understand that we avoid hospitals as much as we can. It leads to...questions.”
“I understand,” Matt said through a grin. “Would there be any allergy medicine there.”
“There should be. Would you like me to take yo
u?”
“Please.”
#
Two hours later, Matt found his way to the library. Anya sat at a desk nestled in an alcove of wooden bookshelves typing at a little gray laptop. A blue coil of smoke rose from her ashtray and out the narrow window before her desk. A dark-haired teen poked his head out from behind a shelf. He regarded Matt with a short, curious glance, then tucked back out of site. Across the room, Allan sat at a computer clicking his mouse with hard, rapid taps.
“Hell with this bollocksed piece of shit!” He jabbed his finger hard into the mouse button.
“Everything all right?” Matt asked.
Allan threw his hand up in frustration. “This damned system. It’s old and buggy. We’ve asked for new equipment but Turgen keeps insisting we don’t need it.” He let out a long breath. “Week’s worth of work lost. Have to start again.”
“That’s why they pay you the big bucks,” Matt said.
“Yeah,” Allan forcefully laughed. “So, how’s your morning?”
“Fine. Been reading about Victor Kluge, one of the old hunters. Good stuff.”
“Kluge,” Allan mumbled, his eyes moving upward. “The one who killed two vampires in one blow?”
“That’s him.”
The Englishman gave a half-grimace. “I’ll tell you, Matt, Kluge’s stories, while fun, don’t always coincide with reports of those with him. It seems he was prone to a bit of exaggeration.”
“So he didn’t kill two vampires in one swipe?”
“Actually, that part is true. At least according to other knights with him at the time. However other things like the size of the nest and the role of the three other men with him in Budapest, is disputed.”
“Three? I hadn’t thought there were that many with him.”
“Precisely.”
“Still,” Matt said, “Two in one swing is pretty impressive, especially if that one is confirmed.” He looked in the direction of the wall with Dämoren’s former owners. Three cases packed with leather-bound books stood between them. “I didn’t see his painting over there.”
Allan touched his neck lightly. The bandages were gone, but the pink, scabbed wounds were still there. “I think it’s downstairs.”
“Do you know where?”
“By the gym.” He looked back at the computer screen and shook his head. “Come on.” He stood. “This thing is just pissing me off. I’ll help you find it.”
Matt followed him through the old house down to the first floor.
“So that kid in the library,” Matt said. “Is that Mikhail?”
Allan nodded. “That’s him. Why?”
“Ben told me about him. Real sad losing his mentor like that.”
“He’s a good bloke, but probably not the most fit for Librarian.”
“Why’s that?”
“He spends more time fluttering around Anya than anything else. Bloody annoying.”
“Sounds like a teenager.”
The hall turned. The walls in this portion were wood-paneled and much simpler than in the rest of the home. Allan explained they were in the old servant’s side. They turned down a little hallway, and then stopped before a wall of paintings. Muffled metallic clacks came through one of the wooden doors behind them
“He should be right here,” Allan said, scanning the portraits.
Searching the paintings, Matt spied the image of a man holding the sword Dämoren to his side. Brown curls spilled out from under his wide hat onto the shoulders of a black and tan doublet. The sprawled body of a blue devil lay at his feet, sheathed in green flame. A small plaque on the bottom read, ‘V. Kluge.’ “There he is.”
“Good eye,” Allan said. “There you go. Look at him. Arrogant twat. The painter must have thought him mad to add that little beastie at his feet.”
Ignoring the jabs at his predecessor. Matt admired the dashing image. Regardless what the painter might have thought, the portrait was one of the better ones in the house. Almost life-like. Kluge must have paid a fortune for it.
The door behind him creaked as Allan peeked inside. “Hey, once you’re done, come here. There’s something I want you to see.”
Matt gave a little nod to the painted man and followed Allan into a modest gym. The smell of old sweat permeated the room. Various weights and workout equipment packed one side, leaving the other half open. A pair of men sparred before a mirrored wall. Wooden weapons filled little racks on the far side.
Allan gestured to a stout black man. “Matt, I’d like you to meet Luc Renault, protector of Velnepo.”
Luc transferred a flanged iron mace to his left hand and offered his right to Matt. “Good to meet you.” His voice was surprisingly deep.
Matt shook the hunter’s strong hand. “Good to meet you, too.”
“Velnepo is one of the original eight Valducan weapons,” Allan said. “She can smash just about anything.”
Luc gave a proud smile and swung the ancient mace once in a downward sweep.
Allan turned to a small Asian man holding a katana. Four long, pale scars ran from his left ear down to his jaw. “And this is Kazuo Miyagi and his sword Akumanokira, the youngest of the known holy blades. This is what I want you to see.”
Kazuo held the sword out flat before him. Its copper handle was cast with a woven diamond pattern, mimicking the look of silk-wrapped katana grips.
Leaning in closer, Matt noticed a series of numbers stamped neatly at the base of the blade. “Is that an army sword?”
“Yes,” Kazuo answered with a short nod. “My grandfather was in the Great Pacific War, stationed in the Philippines. One night, many demons came out of the jungle and attacked his squad. My grandfather emptied his rifle into one to no effect. When the demons came for him, he picked up his commander’s fallen sword and slew them.”
Matt peered at the Japanese sword. The lights above reflected off the polished steel. No blemishes, not even a scratch. It looked as though it had just come off the factory line. Almost expecting a joke, he turned to Allan, his brows raised.
“I know.” The Englishman shrugged. “It defies every theory on how holy blades are made, but there it is. In the 50s, the Valducans heard stories of a demon-killer travelling the islands, ridding them of monsters. Became bit of a folk hero, really.”
“But how?” Matt asked. “It’s a machined blade.”
“How did Dämoren survive being broken, then turned into a handgun?”
“Faith,” Kazuo answered. “It’s all from faith.”
#
Thick clouds, lumbered across the morning skies, their edges pink and red at where the rising sunlight penetrated the canopy. A soft breeze rushed down into the valley, rustling the grape leaves. Matt jogged along a dirt road between the vine rows, fighting to keep his breath steady. In the three days since his arrival, his sinuses had yet to let up. He hadn’t had many issues with allergies back home, but thankfully the jet lag was about gone. Matt hoped he’d get summoned on the next expedition. Maybe find a demon. One good touch of demon blood could heal anything from poison to a punctured lung. Something as simple as allergies wouldn’t be a problem.
He followed the path up a long slope until he came to the chest-high wall circling the property. Succumbing to his clogged sinuses, he stopped to fish a tissue from the wad he’d jammed in his pocket. A quick gust swept through the vineyard, bringing a sudden coolness to Matt’s sweat-slicked skin.
Footsteps crunched up from behind. Matt turned to see Luiza jogging up the road toward him. He couldn’t help but appreciate her red sports bra bouncing in sync with her black ponytail.
“If you ran any slower, you’d be walking,” she said, stopping beside him.
“Allergies,” he said. “They’re kicking my ass.”
“Have you taken anything?”
Matt nodded. “I raided the clinic. Found something there, but they’re not working too well.”
Her brow arched. “In a yellow box?”
“Yeah.”
�
��There’s a reason no one’s taken them.”
“Oh.”
“I have some better ones back at the house you can have.”
“Thanks, I’d really appreciate it.”
Luiza gave a small smile. “So,” she said, looking out over the valley, “what do think?”
“About what?”
“About all of this. The Valducans, the house, everything.”
Matt gazed out across the property. Straight lines of green vine rows cut across the smooth landscape. The huge chateau and outbuildings overlooked it all from a hillside like in a painting or travel brochure. “Not quite what I was expecting,” he said, finally.
“And what was that?”
“I don’t know. Some Medieval tower with battlements, bearded men in tabards and hoods, maybe.”
She laughed. “Well we only wear those for special occasions, the beards, that is.”
Matt chuckled. “Good to know.”
“So have you had a chance to try out the range yet?”
“Not yet. I figure the last thing my sinuses need right now is a room full of powder smoke.”
“After you get your medicine you should be fine.”
“Should be.”
Luiza gave a toothy grin. “I’ll tell you what, if you can keep up with me, I’ll give you the medicine, and then give you a chance to show off your shooting. Think you can beat me?”
Matt pursed a smile. He’d expected a shooting challenge eventually, but from someone like Mal or his buddy Colin. “Okay,” he said. “You’re on.”
#
“This is it,” Luiza said, flipping on the lights. Fluorescents flickered to life, illuminating the long cinderblock building. Five metal tracks spaced along the ceiling ran the length. Red painted lines marked ranges out to fifty meters. A wide window looked into a darkened room behind the range. The familiar smell of powder hung in the air.
“Very nice,” Matt said, noting the silver panel that controlled the target tracks. He set his duffel onto one of the tables along the back wall and stepped over to it. “So you can time them all differently?”
“One at a time, all at once. You can also do random patterns.” She set her cube-like canvas bag down beside his and zipped it open, then removed a black plastic holster and clipped it to her belt. “Help me setup the targets.”
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