Per Anya’s suggestion, they affixed a tiny transmitter, about the size of a thick sequin, to the weapon. The tracker didn’t have much battery life, maybe eight hours of GPS pulses, one every five minutes. It clung to the underside of the toki poutangata, resting flat atop a charging plate that kept its battery full. Anya had also fiddled with the museum’s alarm system. Now, when activated, it wouldn’t notify the local authorities. In the event the vampire did return, no one wanted the police to arrive and find hacked bodies of it or any of its familiars, let alone any cult member prisoners they hoped to take.
For the plan to work, they had brought a second squad to the city, this one led by Jean, Schmidt’s protégé and the most senior hunter. With him came Luc, Susumu , Kazuo, and Luiza. Turgen had returned to the chateau, which was nearly empty, having ten of its eleven hunters gone. Allan had said that combining all the Valducans spread world-wide, mostly in India and South America, the museum team represented almost half of them.
They worked in shifts. Malcolm’s team of Luc, Anya, Ben, Kazuo, and Matt, protected it from eight at night until eight in the morning. When not at the museum, they stayed at a dinky hotel a block and a half away. With his background in antiques, Matt had been delegated with counterfeiting the weapon. Not that being able to spot a forgery gave him much expertise in actually creating them, he still had more knowledge than the others. Kazuo was at least helpful. The small hunter was experienced at wood carving, a skill Matt knew almost nothing about.
The schedule however gave Matt zero time with Luiza. Being on separate teams, and his time away from the museum dedicated to sleep and forging a centuries-old adze, reduced seeing her to only during shift-changes, or texting on the pre-paid Jean had issued, since Matt’s phone didn’t work in Europe. He couldn’t help but feel a little foolish with how much he looked forward to those meetings, short and impersonal as they were. It was just that he’d never had a girlfriend before. Not that Luiza was his girlfriend. He just...liked her. It wasn’t sex. A life of growing up and living on the road, constantly moving from town to town, had led to many one-night stands and brief affairs with women who rarely knew his real name, but never a relationship. Luiza made him feel different, somehow relaxed, yet vulnerable and he—
Movement flickered across one of the screens.
Matt leaned closer, staring at an empty hallway, tall cases of fine porcelain lining the walls. He swore he saw something. Curious, Matt leaned the little rubberized joystick to the left. Two floors below camera four turned. There was no one there. Round reflections of light glistened off the floor. He pushed the stick forward, zooming. Wet spots. Footprints?
He glanced up at a map of the building. Red LEDs shone from every window and door, indicating they were shut, locked, and alarmed. Matt looked back at the screen. Why is the floor wet?
Sighing, he checked the screens again. Kazuo stood before camera two, staring up at a broken Roman statue. Ben strolled past screen five in the west galleries. A shadow moved past camera six. That was the side entrance. Malcolm had already passed by seven minutes before. He shouldn’t be back yet.
Matt moved the camera’s joystick, turning it toward the door. His eyes widened. The door was open, wet tracks trailed across the polished marble. Matt turned back to the map. A red light indicated it was closed. But it wasn’t closed. It wasn’t locked. And for damn sure the alarm wasn’t armed. So why the hell did it say so?
Matt pressed the mic button. “Mal?”
“Yes?”
“The side door is open. Did y—”
The pink water in the bottle suddenly swirled, the color condensing into a red bead in the lower corner. Shit.
“It’s here!” Matt said, his thumb still on the button. “Repeat, demon is here. First floor, side entrance.”
“Kazuo,” Malcolm, ordered. “Meet me in the dome gallery. Matt, you stay there.”
Matt’s pulse raced. A red light started flashed on the wall. Malcolm must have hit the alarm. Automatically, it called Jean’s team at the hotel. Without moving his eyes from the screen, Matt opened a nylon backpack and drew out the heavy Ingram. The massive glass security doors began sliding closed. Two men in black hurried past camera four. That was the other side of the museum.
“Multiple contacts!” Matt snapped over the radio. He eyed the bottle. The red sphere had split into three separate beads at different points, two quickly glided in the direction of the domed gallery.
A werewolf bounded past camera one, charging toward Ben. The Indian hunter turned, his scimitar in his hand as the beast leapt.
Everything went dark. Blackness. The hum of computers wound down, the rumbling air vents silenced, and Matt sat alone, blind in a windowless room.
Matt stood, one hand on the machinegun. He started toward the door, his other hand stretched out before him. His foot kicked a small trashcan, nearly tripping him as it fell. His fingers found the cold wooden door. He felt for the handle. There was a loud click, and one of the three florescent lights flicked back on. At least the emergency power still worked. Matt yanked open the door and charged into the museum.
Large cases and statues loomed in the dim light. Long shadows crossed the floor, cast from the emergency lights still burning. Shouts echoed from somewhere ahead.
Matt raced through several tiny rooms then emerged out into the domed gallery. His fingers tight around the Ingram’s grip he stopped at the balcony rail. Two floors below Kazuo stood before the smaller northern door, katana held before him. Two figures lay on the floor, a woman and a man. Blue-green flames flicked above the male’s body, casting eerie dancing shadows.
Matt could see the cracked security door to the room with the Maori adze. It hadn’t fully closed when the power shut off, leaving a seven or eight inch gap. Malcolm charged toward the open south entrance, his machete slick with dark blood. He hacked at an emaciated ghoul. The creature leapt back onto all fours and circled to the right. Matt switched the machinegun to his left hand and drew Dämoren. He cocked the hammer.
Malcolm swung again. The ghoul sprung onto a narrow case filled with antique muskets. The case tipped and the creature leapt away before it fell with a terrible crash and shattered glass. Matt aimed Dämoren down, but the ghoul was quick, moving too fast in sporadic directions to lead it.
Someone yelled. Shadows raced toward the glass door Kazuo guarded. Several men ran into view, holding clubs. Kazuo stood still as the men pushed forward, beating on the glass and shouting. One raised a red-handled axe and Kazuo swung his sword down at the floor, through the man’s extended shadow. The shadow split and the man screamed as blood sprayed out from the stumps of his uplifted arms. The axe flew into the glass with a thud and Kazuo swung again and again, slicing shadows as redness splattered across the bulletproof shield.
Two more men came in through the south door, past the bronze rider statue. Malcolm turned to face them. The stringy-haired ghoul scuttled up one of the art deco dancers and leapt toward Kazuo’s back. Matt slung Dämoren out and fired. The boom echoed loud off the dome, and a blast of blue smoke erupted downward. Kazuo jumped aside as the demon fell and slid across the floor, trailing yellow flames. He looked up and gave Matt a ‘thank you’ smile.
No problem.
Footsteps clomped up from behind and Matt whirled to see a man in a wet, gray T-shirt running toward him from a side doorway. Matt swung the Ingram up in his off hand and fired. The heavy machinegun bounced, stitching the man up the stomach, chest, and into the wall behind. The attacker staggered and fell.
Familiar. Where’s the master? In his hurry to leave the security room, Matt had forgotten the blood compass.
Matt holstered Dämoren, and held the Ingram in both hands as he approached the fallen man. A growing pool of blood appeared black in the dim light. Movement came from the open doorway and a hulking shape crouched through. Slender long horns curled back from atop its crimson head. The strutter.
It opened its mouth, and its monstrous tongue slithered out. Matt
fired a burst from the Ingram into its legs. Silver, amethyst-tipped slugs chewed through the beast’s thighs. It stumbled back a step before the holes closed.
You’d better appreciate me, Allan.
The demon’s tongue split three ways like some nightmarish flower, revealing a writhing knot of tendrils beneath. Matt dropped the machinegun, its sling yanking on his shoulder as he grabbed Dämoren’s ivory handle. The tendrils exploded toward him. Matt yanked the revolver out, hacking at the slimy strands with Dämoren’s blade as he spun out of the way and behind a copper statue.
A golden-eyed man came through the far doorway. Lights glinted off his nickel snub-nose as he raised it. Matt shot Dämoren, blowing a gory hole in the would-be killer’s chest. Then he turned, stepping out from behind the statue. The strutter was right on top of him. Matt fired, hitting the beast in the bicep. It howled around its enormous tongue and the tendrils lashed out.
They struck Matt like a thousand whips, wrapping his torso and face. Instantly the pain hit, burning him. Screaming, he tried to pull away, but the slender strands held strong, like pulling against red-hot rebar. He cocked Dämoren’s hammer, and tried to fire, but the tendrils had his arm, pushing it out and away. The slick worms found his bare wrist and hand, searing into them. It pulled him up, lifting him to his toes then off the floor. The burning continued growing, until all he could see or feel or imagine was pain.
The tendrils jolted, yanking Matt through the air. They slacked and slid away as he fell to the floor. Dämoren fell from his grip. His skin still burned. He clutched his face, trying to wipe the slime away, but only managed to smear it onto his palm, burning it as well.
“Here!” a voice growled.
A zipper sounded and something cold and wet splashed Matt’s face. The thick gel dissolved and the burning lessened. He smelled alcohol. Matt rubbed it over his skin, killing the poison.
“Can you stand?” he heard Luc ask.
Matt opened his eyes. The left one squinted a little, still swelling. The huge man stood over him clutching his mace in one hand and holding a red plastic bottle in the other. Allan had issued everyone the alcohol after seeing the strutter in the video. Matt reached for it and Luc gave it to him. He poured it over his right hand and neck, washing away the remaining venom. “Thanks. And thanks for saving me.”
The demon lay crumpled against the far wall. The plaster was cracked where it had evidently slammed into it. Its side was completely crushed, wet guts hemorrhaging from the jagged wound. Purple and orange flames spread across its body. The same fire dripped from Velnepo’s iron flanges.
“Can you stand?” Luc repeated.
Matt nodded, but the simple movement stung his inflamed neck. His skin still burned.
The blood. Need to...heal me, Matt thought, struggling to his feet. Luc helped him up and Matt staggered to the demon’s corpse. He knelt, laying his blistering hand into the bloody hole punched into the creature’s side.
Nothing happened.
He shoved his hand deeper, spectral flames licking up his wrists and gooey blood running over it. No! Why isn’t it working? Was it the venom? Demon blood had always worked, broken bones, cuts, gun shots, illness, everything.
“Everyone converge to the main room,” Malcolm’s voice shouted through the ear bud.
“Matt, we need to move,” Luc said looking back.
Matt noticed the sounds of shouts still coming from the gallery below. Frustrated, he clenched his fist, squeezing bits of gore between his tender fingers. He swallowed. Even that hurt. “Okay.”
He picked Dämoren off the floor from where he’d dropped it. The hammer was down and he realized he must have pulled the trigger while entangled, though he didn’t remember it. He cocked the hammer back with his blistered thumb and squinted up to Luc. His left eye was swollen completely shut now. “You lead.”
They hurried through one of the doorways, past a tiny glass elevator and down the stairs. Matt held Dämoren out, looking for movement.
“Malcolm, we’ll be there in three minutes,” Jean’s tense voice said through the radio.
They reached the second floor. A man in dark clothing lay on the floor, his head completely crushed. Blood and chunky bits of brain coated the wall beside him like shotgun splatter. Matt recognized Luc’s handiwork.
Two figures moved in the shadows, running toward them, a young man with black hair and another with sandy blonde. Matt pushed Luc aside, knocking them both to the floor as a shot fired. Matt rolled behind a wide island case in the middle of the room. He leaned out, raising Dämoren and fired at the shooter. He missed.
The men split, crouching behind cases in the dim room. Familiars don’t usually seek cover.
Matt cocked Dämoren’s hammer and squinted into the darkness.
A silhouette moved. Matt fired. In the moment of flash he could see the black-haired man frozen like a snapshot, his gun out front. The man stumbled back and fell with a thud.
Footsteps sprinted toward them. Four loud shots fired and the second man fell dead.
Matt looked at Luc, tucked into a tight space behind a half-wall of original church stonework. The hunter still held his tan pistol out, trained on the unmoving corpse. A wisp of smoke trickled out from the barrel.
“Thank you,” Luc said.
“Don’t mention it.” Matt hissed as he picked himself up and approached the nearest black-clad body. Dead eyes stared up at him as Matt patted the body down. No wallet. No ID. He noticed a metal chain around the man’s neck, leading down to a round shape beneath his wet, clinging shirt. Matt hooked a finger beneath the twisted chain and drew a flat pendant out from under the cloth. The image of a rearing, winged serpent with a woman’s head marked the medallion’s face.
Demon worshipers. He’d found their symbol. Matt yanked the chain, breaking it free then he and Luc continued down the staircase.
Once they reached the first floor, they hurried through the gallery, past the bronze rider and into the main room.
Malcolm stepped out as they entered. He was splattered in blood. Three corpses lay around the entryway. He gave the men a nod, then seemed to grimace as he saw Matt’s face. “You see Anya and Ben?”
“No,” Luc said.
“They were in the south galleries before the power went out,” Matt said, his swollen lips making him slur. “Ben first floor. Anya second.”
Malcolm thumbed his radio. “Ben, Anya, do you read?”
No response.
Matt hurried past the corpses to the dead vampire, sheathed in blue-green fire. Kneeling, he laid his hand flat in the bloody puddle spread around it.
Nothing.
Several shots echoed down the hall. Matt looked up, but saw nothing.
“Ben is hurt!” Anya’s voice yelled shrilly through the ear bud, causing Matt to wince.
“Where are you?” Malcolm asked.
“First floor by the entrance.”
“I’ll go,” Luc said, already running.
Malcolm looked back, seeing Matt’s hand in the vampire’s blood. Wariness flickered in his eyes.
Why isn’t this working? Matt thought, standing. Unconsciously he wiped his sticky palm on his thigh, then immediately regretted it. He saw Kazuo before the northern door, katana in hand. The light down the passage ahead shone red through the filter of smeared blood. A pile of chopped corpses lay on the other side of the glass. Matt couldn’t guess how many. He eyed the dead ghoul lying near the swordsman. “Third time’s the charm,” he mumbled.
Matt crouched beside the ghoul’s corpse and rested his palm against the bloody bullet hole blown through its leathery flesh. This had better work.
A soothing wave flowed up his arm, cooling his burning skin. He exhaled a sigh as the wave hit his shoulder and up his neck. Instantly the swelling receded. His pounding heart slowed and the lash-like welts and blisters sank and melted away.
“Amazing,” Kazuo said. The short hunter didn’t seem afraid or concerned, simply impressed.
Matt stood and glanced down at the still-burning body. Already it had begun transforming back into its human form. So I guess I have to kill it for the blood to heal me. Before, when he was the only hunter, they’d just assumed it was demon’s blood in general. Being with multiple hunters changed things. But I was with another hunter, he realized. Clay. I could heal off the demons he killed before I inherited Dämoren. Was it because Clay was his mentor at the time? Or maybe...Dämoren? Every demon that healed me had died by her. Nowhere in the dozens of hunters who had carried and loved her did anyone mention healing. He touched his chest.
A gunshot echoed up the hall.
Worry about it later. Matt opened the latch behind Dämoren’s gold-inlaid cylinder and ejected a spent shell. Six fired. Thirteen bullets remaining, he mused, loading a fresh round and ejecting the next shell. Matt didn’t believe in unlucky numbers, but that didn’t stop him from noticing them. He scanned the balconies above for movement as he worked.
“I found Ben” Luc said in the radio. “Arm is broken. No bites. Anya secured a prisoner.”
“Prisoner?” Malcolm asked.
“She had him at gunpoint when I got here. I have him in handcuffs now.”
“Are you sure he isn’t possessed. He could turn if he is.”
“I can’t tell,” Luc’s deep voice made it hard to hear on the radio. “You’ll need to check that.”
“I’ll check once Jean’s team arrives,” Malcolm said. “Until then, keep a close eye on him. Jean, what’s your ETA?”
“Almost there,” Jean said.
“Do you have a med bag?” Malcolm asked.
“We have one.”
A dark form moved in the hall, beyond the blood-streaked door. Kazuo tensed. Matt looked to see orange veins of light worm across the silhouette’s body and green eyes ignite. Orange flames erupted, sheathing the ifrit in fire as it stepped forward. A wedge of red light shone through the door as it neared the dim, round gallery. Matt stepped beside Kazuo, Dämoren trained on the bulletproof shield between them and the demon. Its flaming body cast no shadow.
Damoren Page 17
