Damoren
Page 15
Once he reached the bathroom he emptied his bladder, then looked at the thin book Mikhail had dropped. Tiny black and white splotches filled the cover, like some artist’s rendering of static on an old-style television.
Matt opened it. Crisp Cyrillic words filled the narrowly lined pages, their meanings lost on him. He flipped ahead. Occasional doodles began in the margins, starting about a quarter of the way in. They looked to be swords and knives. Matt continued deeper through the book. The doodles became more frequent, cleaner, spilling out from the margins and occupying more and more of the pages. Matt realized that the images were not of random, arbitrary swords, but of one specific sword, with a curved blade and jeweled handle.
He recognized the weapon.
Eventually the writing and notes ceased all together, replaced by page after page of the same curved sword. Some were highly detailed with shading and soft lines, others were crisp in stark black and white. Some showed fine close-ups, the pommel, the twisting grip, the grooved blade, a tassel. Still others depicted the sword complete.
Matt found himself staring at full-page drawing done in five different colors of pen and pencil. A jeweled scimitar, a tassel hanging from the tip of its scabbard. While Allan and the others all rolled their eyes, believing the young man’s distraction was with the busty Romanian, Matt knew the truth. Mikhail was in love. Not with the woman, but with her sword. Baroovda had bonded with him.
Shaking his head and remembering the awkward fear of loving a weapon already bonded to another, Matt closed the book. The boy’s drawings were like the ones Matt had doodled in the corners of his study books when Clay was teaching him. If the old man had ever found them it would have been more embarrassing than if he’d caught Matt jerking off.
Allan had considered Matt’s early love for a weapon already bonded as unique, a word Matt had grown accustomed to. But Mikhail’s drawing proved otherwise.
After checking the hall was clear, he ventured back out into the dark house. His bare feet silent on the thick rugs, he made his way to Mikhail’s room. No light peeked from around the door frame. Matt bent and slid the notebook under the door, then crept back to his own room and into bed. The boy’s love was an intimate secret, and it would be safe with him. He only hoped Mikhail, in return, wouldn’t tell of Matt’s late-night wanderings.
#
“It’s not fair to compare yourself to us,” Matt said, holding the weave-textured straps of his shooting bag.
“It’s embarrassing,” Allan grumbled, his lips barely moving. He carried a plastic bucket clinking with their spent brass.
Luiza opened the green metal door along the back of the lane. “He’s right. Matt and I have been shooting for years. You’ll get the hang of it. Just stop anticipating the recoil.”
Allan harrumphed. “I can’t help it. It kicks.”
“You get used to it.”
“I think I want a different gun.”
“Ask and you shall receive.” Beige foam panels lined the walls of the ten-foot hallway, nearly covering the door set in the far side. A brass lock and handle protruded out through chunky square cutouts in the foam. Luiza unlocked them.
She flicked the fluorescents, and they stepped into a long room, nearly running the width of the gun range. It smelled like a machine shop, that unique combination of metal, grease, and an unidentifiable burned odor.
Matt set his bag down on a thick, scarred table and admired the setup. Two tables met at one corner, creating a neat work cubby. A sturdy vice rested on one side beside an assortment of other clamps. A gray drill press sat on the other end. Various wrenches, mallets, calipers, saws, files, screwdrivers, and many more tools Matt couldn’t identify, all hung from a high peg board backsplash along both walls.
On the other side of the room, past a four-foot double-paned window of bulletproof glass looking out onto the range, was a meticulously organized reloading bench. Two high cabinets, stuffed with wide, shallow drawers, each labeled in ascending calibers stood as tall as him. Yellow plastic trays lined a trio of shelves against the back wall. Before them, atop a dark and weathered counter, stood a pair of sturdy presses and a bright red tumbler.
“Nice,” he said, genuinely impressed. A stainless steel sink rested in a little counter beside him, next to a little black microwave. A battered refrigerator stood nearby, its face speckled with dozens of touristy magnets: an Eifel Tower, a palm tree that said ‘Costa Rica’, a small Venetian mask.
“Welcome to the bunker,” Luiza said. “Used to be Nick’s little fortress in here.”
“Nick?”
“Arms master,” Allan said. “He died in Poland some weeks ago.”
Matt nodded, remembering the story of the wounded hunter killed in Krakow after the demon that had bit him escaped. A mercy kill.
“He used to hole up in here,” Allan continued. He nodded to the three hulking gun safes along the back wall. “It took Jean a couple days before he could open those after Nick was gone. Didn’t trust the combination with anyone.”
“No one knew how to get in? Sounds odd.”
Allan shrugged, slightly. “He’d given the combinations to Turgen, Schmidt, couple others. But then changed ‘em without telling them. He was, ah...” Allan chuckled. “A little paranoid.” He pointed to a desk with a pair of black monitors. Each wide screen was divided into four sections, each showing a different video. Hallways, rooms, hilled vine rows.
“Is that the security feed?” Matt asked stepping closer. He watched Colin lifting weights in the gym while Susumu and Riku sparred.
“One of them. He had a backup installed here. In case something happened he wanted to know. As I said, paranoid.”
Luiza nodded. “I miss him.”
“We all do,” Allan agreed.
They set their gear out on one of the worktables and Luiza opened one of the safes. Various black handguns hung from little cloth holsters along the inside of the door. She removed a Sig identical to hers and three magazines.
“Here,” she said, handing it to Allan.
Allan looked at it like he wasn’t entirely sure what it was. “What else is there?”
She made a little face. “Different kinds, calibers. Trust me, you’ll like it. Good for beginners, but professional.”
“Can I look at some of the others?”
Luiza swept her hand out, offering toward the open safe. “Feel free. You’ll need to test out anything you like. Make sure you can handle it.”
Allan made his way to the safe and scoured through it while Matt took the bucket off the table and poured about a quarter of the dirty shells into the tumbler. It took a few seconds before he located the switch and he turned it on. It trembled with a steady hum.
“What’s this one?” Allan said, holding up a blocky pistol.
“Glock,” Matt answered.
Allan flipped it over. “How big is the clip for it?”
“Magazine,” Matt corrected.
“They always call it a clip on the telly.”
“So? TV and movies also say that UV hurts vampires like sunlight, too.”
Allan frowned. “All right. How much does the magazine hold?”
“Seventeen, I think. Never really got into them. Clay used to say anything but a 1911 was a waste of metal.”
“Oh.” He looked back inside. “We have any of those in here?”
“Doubtful,” Luiza said. “Forty-five isn’t a common round in Europe.”
Matt glanced over at the shelves beside him. Calibers started at 7.65 and worked up. 9mm seemed to dominate the shelves with three drawers for both Luger and Kurtz sizes. .45 had only one. He pulled it open. Eight black trays rested inside, each filled with unloaded bullets, some silver, others copper. A few looked like brass. They were hollow points with six little prongs open above the conical cavity in the tips. He picked one up and noticed that instead of solid silver like the ones he and Clay had always molded, these were silver jacketed with lead cores.
“These are like p
rofessional made,” he said holding it up to Luiza.
She nodded. “Nick was a genius. They work just as well as solid but weigh more. Penetrates better.”
Matt tapped his fingertip on the little prongs. “What are these?”
She smiled wryly, her dark eyes twinkling. “What do you think?”
Matt shrugged.
She pulled open the top drawer and removed a clear plastic box. Tapered brown beads rattled inside. Luiza opened the box and removed a bead, then plucked the bullet from Matt’s hand. She slipped the bead into the hollow tip and held it out. “Ta-da.”
Matt peered closer. A round-tipped cap of tiger’s eye rested perfectly in the bullet’s nose. “Oh. Oh wow.”
“Like I said, genius.”
“So you can put any stone you want in the tips?”
“Or metal. You can make a gold tip, or silver, bronze, anything. Nick locked the valuable ones away, but,” she winked. “I know the combinations.”
Matt grinned.
Luiza looked down at the drawer of .45 slugs. “Nick never loaded any of the tips on these, so you’ll have to. Not enough demand to keep a committed inventory. Once you bend the prongs in, that’s it. So choose carefully.”
“We have any jade tips?”
She nodded.
“Then let’s start with those.”
#
After what had felt like a hundred potentials and a thousand questions ranging from the comically general to the frighteningly specific, Allan had chosen his sidearm; a Walther PPK chambered in the 9mm Kurtz. Allan wasn’t sure about it at first, but once he learned it was the same type of gun James Bond used, the deal was set. Luiza took him back to the range just to be sure Allan actually liked shooting it. Through the double-walled Lexan window, Matt watched Allan blast holes through paper silhouettes as he operated Nick’s cap setter.
The cap setter, as they called it, was similar to a large stapler made of metal and polished wood. On the lower jaw, Matt slotted a hollow metal post, just the diameter for whichever size bullet he was using. He’d slide a bullet into the ring, where the slug sat tightly, then he’d set whichever type of cap he wanted beneath the prongs in the hollow point. Once in place, he just lowered the jaw, jamming it firmly down, which pressed the claw-like prongs securely around the cap. It reminded Matt of this stupid toy his sister had that attached plastic rhinestones to cloth. She’d spent her Fourth Grade year with nothing but sparkly jeans.
“How are you coming?” Luiza asked, once she and Allan had finished.
“Done with the forty-fives. Starting on nine mils.” Matt mashed the setter down hard, then rolled his hand a little over the top, trying to get all the prongs perfectly set. He released it, then removed the bullet. A purple amethyst capped the silver slug. He tugged the little claws with a thumbnail. Good and tight.
“It took a couple tries to get it down,” he said, motioning to the trays of completed slugs. Twelve of the silver bullets and two of the brass had no caps, their broken prongs casualties of Matt’s learning curve. “Guess I’ll just have to make do with hollow points. Probably better than the ones I’ve been using for years.”
Luiza grinned. “Allan and I can take over from here. We’re the ones using them anyway.” She nodded toward the corner. “You know how to use one of those?”
Matt looked at the reloading presses bolted securely to the table. The larger one stood over two feet high, grayish green and silver with little rotating plates and topped with a slender clear bottle of gunpowder. A long silver lever, capped with a round knob jutted up and outward from the front in a almost suggestive manner. “No clue,” he said. “Always used a hand press. Easier to carry on the road. You?”
“Nick insisted on it. He said we’d all learn to slow down and shoot better if we knew how long loading them took. A group of us used to all come, watch movies, have a few drinks, and swap turns loading bullets.”
Matt showed Allan how he learned to use the cap setter, then set him at it, armed with a list of what stones worked on what demons, then Luiza set him down and showed him how to operate the press. The press was very simple to use, once he got the hang of it, and Matt wished he’d been able to use one all those years of sitting with Clay or alone squeezing them out at a snail’s pace. The solid silver bullets that he molded were also a lot lighter than these lead-core ones. They needed more powder, which the machine properly measured and poured for him. Reloading Dämoren’s special shells however, would always need to be manual, but Matt wouldn’t have it any other way. That was something intimate, something special. The Ingram was a tool, a hungry machine that needed feeding. Dämoren was...well...like a lover. Matt chuckled at the thought, true as it was.
“What’s so funny over there?” Allan asked. He’d almost filled two fifty-round trays with capped slugs.
“Nothing,” Matt said. Then, “So Luiza, you mentioned drinks earlier.”
She snorted. “Not while you two are still learning how to do this. Beers are reserved for loaders that don’t even have to think about what they’re doing.”
“Ahh, one beer won’t hurt,” Allan said.
She gave them both a look. “Once we’re done. “
“Well, I’m finished with these,” Matt said, cranking out the last of his rounds. Eighty in total. Amethyst for succubi, brass for ifrit, obsidian for ghouls, jade for the oni.
“And I’m almost done.” Allan pressed the cap setter down. “Four more after this one.”
Matt turned to say something when he saw Schmidt walking past the range window. Moments later the door opened and he stepped inside carrying a green cloth bag. His thin lips looked even tighter than normal.
“Here are your supplies, Mister Hollis,” Schmidt said tersely, setting the bag down on one of the long tables with a thunk. “I trust they are what you need.”
Matt rose and looked inside. Four black plastic jars rested inside beside a large square of folded red felt. He picked up one of the jars. Most of the French writing was lost on him, but the little orange warning symbol of an exploding ball was very familiar. He set it back inside and checked the felt. It was the exact same as Clay used to use, even the color, which Matt’s list hadn’t specified. Had it not looked new, he’d have thought it was from the same bolt.
“These look good.” Matt moved the jars aside to find a worn tin box resting at the bottom. Its once bright paint and picture of what looked like snow-capped mountains was worn and scratched. He picked it up. It weighted more than he’d expected. Matt set the box on the table and carefully opened the tight lid.
Six tapered ingots rested inside, tarnished black with age. Matt picked one up and turned it over. ‘C.M.’ it read, scratched deep into the bottom. He looked up at the old man, his mouth opening into a question.
“Clay poured those,” Schmidt said. He gave a slight smile, but then it was gone. “I’ve had them for several years now and decided it was only appropriate they be used for their original intent.”
Matt closed his hand, feeling the weight of it. Clay’s personal silver. Schmidt had saved it all those years. “Thank you.”
Schmidt nodded, then turned to the others. “I’ve come to fetch you. There was an incident in Limoges last night.”
Allan straightened up. “What happened?”
“Attempted break in at the Vedorme-Perrin Museum. Nothing stolen, but a guard is missing. We suspect demons were involved.”
“A weapon?” Allan asked, standing.
Schmidt’s brow rose. “Possibly. Master Turgen received the call this morning. We have several pieces on loan there and the owner called him personally. We are meeting to discuss the operation and sending a team.”
“What about me?” Matt asked. If he wasn’t going to the meeting it only meant he was again exiled back to his room.
Schmidt’s blue eyes regarded him. “You’re going with them. You have an hour to cast your bullets and prepare. We need Dämoren ready. You’ll be briefed on the way to Limoges.”
Among the most pervasive and vile of Demonkind is the Succubus, a most awful fiend who desires not the flesh of a man for sustenance, but for carnal dominance. While theologians and scholars believe that Succubi and Incubi are separate species: one female and the other male; they are unquestionably the same entity merely inhabiting the physical body of a human female or male host.
2: Succubi, whom the Germans call Mara, the Norwegians Huldra, the Arabs Qarinah, take the form of comely women; their hair is long and breasts round and full. Succubi possess wings of soft skin that extend from their backs. Through trickery and glamour they can hide these appendages from any physical observation or touch.
Incubi, whom the Italians call Folletti, The Spaniards Duendes, the French Follets, are the male form of Succubi. Their appearance can change, depending on their host. However they all share a beauty that no woman, no matter how chaste and pure, can resist. They are well formed and possess a member whose size and girth rivals a stallion’s. Unlike their female counterparts, Incubi do not possess wings and therefore cannot fly, although their physical strength is far superior to that of Succubi.
Succubi can also inhabit the body of a fox, as observed in the Far East.
When slain, the incorporeal body of a Succubus burns with the most unholy of fires whose color alternates from the deepest crimson to rich violet.
3: Several folk remedies exist to ward back the evil of Succubi, though most are in truth merely superstition and possess no power over the Demon. Fearful monks tying crucifixes to their genitals before retiring at night protect themselves no more than ignorant maids relying on phallic-shaped amulets. Succubi do not obey the Exorcist, have no dread of exorcisms, nor reverence for holy things.