Matt covered his nose against the overpowering stink of smoke and acrid chemicals. Light shone through the open windows, their panes smashed away. He assumed Tom did that as a way of letting some of the rain inside to fight the fire. He picked up a red extinguisher off the floor. It felt light. He checked the CO2 gauge. Empty.
“Eight hundred years.” Blackened debris crunched under Allan’s shoes. “All gone.”
Careful of his footing Matt circled around a half-burned desk to see a torn and bloodied corpse on the other side. Black flies scuttled across the pink flesh. The square shaft of Tom’s prosthetic leg jutted from a discarded shoe. Bite marks marred the dull aluminum. A second red extinguisher, the chemical kind, responsible for the layer of white dust, rested nearby. “He’s here.”
Tom’s red-stained jeans were singed and speckled with burn holes. He had succeeded in quelling the fire, but gave his life to do it.
Allan set the rolled up stretcher on the floor beside Tom’s body and picked up a leather-bound book. He brushed the gray dusty cover and opened it. “At least they’re not all gone. Still...”
Matt stepped over to the open window. A cool breeze wafted in, bringing fresh air. Outside Luiza and Malcolm carried Kazuo’s body to one of the stacked wooden pyres. “Can I ask you a question, Allan? Between you and me?”
“Of course.”
Matt licked his lips. “If Ibenus was broken, do you think you could replace her?”
“No,” Allan answered flatly. “I don’t even want to think about that.” Wood crunched as he stepped closer. “I could tell you weren’t too comfortable with Luiza’s change.”
Matt turned to face him. “Then how could she do that? If Dämoren broke I’d die. I... I can’t imagine how I could go on. And she just accepted another sword. How?”
Allan gave an understanding nod. “Let me ask you a question. If you died in that mine, leaving Dämoren without a protector, would you want her to find someone, or would you want her alone?”
“That’s different.”
“No it’s not,” Allan said. “You saw Luiza after it broke. She was torn to pieces. Like losing your spouse and child all at the same time. That was real grief. Do you not think Feinluna would want her to find someone?”
Matt thought about that. “I suppose,” he said eventually.
“And do you think Kazuo would want his sword locked up in a safe somewhere, alone, waiting for someone to come along? No. He’d want Akumanokira bonded to a guardian. He’d want it to find someone, and it did. I was as shocked as you were about the timing, but it happened. Matt, she’s still grieving. I can see it. She feels guilty because Kazuo’s sword chose her, and she thinks she’s betraying Feinluna. Don’t be upset with her.”
Matt nodded, feeling a pang of shame at Allan’s words. Of course she was upset. She’d reached out to him, and he’d treated her coldly ever since she found Akumanokira. “You’re right. I’m sorry.”
“Don’t apologize to me. She’s the one who needs your support.”
Matt stepped over a burned chair and found the toppled case dedicated to Dämoren. Most of the original sketched designs were too far gone. He sifted through the shattered glass and found a photograph. He picked it up. Clay and Schmidt smiled up at him, their young faces proud, seemingly frozen in a light-hearted moment. At least they’re not all gone.
“Hey Matt?” Allan asked, his voice rising.
“Yeah?” Matt slipped the photo into his shirt pocket.
“That flash drive I gave you, do you still have it?”
“Yeah. It’s in my things.”
Allan let out a relieved sigh. “Oh thank God.”
Matt’s brow creased. “You think it’s still good?”
“I copied it before Anya’s security upgrade.” Allan laughed, running his fingers through his brown hair. “You know what this means? The records are safe! Schmidt and Malcolm were so damned worried you might do something to them, and now here you are with the only copy in the world. I need to check it.”
“We will.” Matt motioned to the mauled body. “But first we need to take care of Tom.”
Evolved Folklore (Excerpt)
By: Sir Stephen Brenier, 1999
Modern culture has rationalized the horrors of old, forcing them into paradigms that it finds understandable. For example, Lycanthropy and Vampirism - seen today, as viruses or communicable diseases.
People, when faced with the wholly incomprehensible and alien, will naturally attempt to make sense of things by explaining them in accordance with the most current of scientific theories. While this behavior is beneficial when studying objects in our physical universe it is wholly inadequate when dealing with the truly supernatural.
Supernatural entities and powers are not of our world and therefore do not obey the laws of nature. Instead, they follow symbolism. The symbolic act of dominance in a demon’s bite is where the possession occurs, not in the transference of saliva. Silver does not hold power over these demons because of its atomic structure, but because of what the metal itself represents to the demon. To understand these beings, we must study the whole rather than minutia.
The notion that demonic possession is transferable as a disease may be an acceptable theory for people who themselves do not believe in demons. However, we, the hunters of demons, must never allow these newer mythologies to affect our judgment or ideas about the creatures we face.
Chapter Fifteen
Matt awoke to a knock at the door. Instinctively, he grabbed Dämoren off the bedside table. Demons don’t knock, he realized, his tired brain firing to life. After the lengthy service and burning of the fallen knights, one which included a lot of Latin, which Matt understood, and Valducan ceremony, which he didn’t, Matt had stayed up most of the night cleaning and reloading Dämoren’s shells. He’d given in to exhaustion before he could start the task of stripping and cleaning mud cake from the Ingram.
The knock came again. Luc’s deep voice called from the other side of the door. “Matt?”
“Yeah,” he replied, his voice a little gruffer than expected. He looked at the clock. 11:32.
The door opened and Luc leaned in. His eyes gave a moment’s start seeing the black and gilt revolver trained on him.
Matt lowered the gun. “Time to get up?”
“There is a meeting,” Luc said. “I came to fetch you.”
Matt quickly dressed, pulled on Dämoren’s shoulder rig, and followed Luc into the hall. Haphazard clumps of broken furniture, picture frames, and various curios were piled through the house. Salvageable items were stacked or packed into boxes. The citrus tang of cleaners almost masked the lingering stink of smoke. The Order had been busy.
“Why didn’t you wake me?” Matt asked, feeling a little guilty for sleeping so late.
Luc led him down the stairs to the first floor. “You needed it. We tried to let everyone sleep as late as they could.”
To Matt’s surprise, they bypassed the dining room and continued toward the front of the house. A pile of small boxes rested beside the open front doors.
Malcolm walked up the hall toward them, carrying a green plastic tub in his tattooed arms. “He rises,” his voice strained. “Grab a box. We’re evacuating.”
Matt picked up a cardboard box loaded with crumpled balls of brown paper. He grunted, surprised at the weight of whatever was wrapped inside, then followed Malcolm to where the van waited out front. Riku stood at the rear door loading boxes into the back. The morning breeze carried the stink of spray-paint. Matt noticed someone had painted the duct tape patches blue, blending them to the vehicle, which was a just a shade darker. Still, it looked better than tape.
“How’s Susumu,” he asked, sliding the box inside.
“He woke up this morning for a little while,” Riku said. “He wants to thank you for helping save Shi no Kaze.”
Matt caught Malcolm’s eye. The hunter gave a look as if to say, ‘He’ll thank you for the naginata, but don’t expect more than that.’<
br />
“I’m glad to hear he’s all right,” Matt said.
Riku nodded. The hint of the usual disdain seemed to be gone from the young man’s eyes.
Luc heaved a box onto the top of the stack and closed the door.
Malcolm fished the keys out his pocket. “Luc, Matt, get in. Riku, keep an eye on Susumu and bring down some more boxes for when we get back. You have that phone we gave you?”
The boy tapped his front pocket. “Yes.”
“Good. Keep it on you. Call us if you see or hear anything.”
Riku nodded again.
“Where are we going?” Matt asked.
“Air strip.”
A discomforting knot tightened in Matt’s chest. Please not that airplane again.
#
Matt stared out the window, watching the French countryside as Malcolm drove. Two days ago he’d been sitting in the museum, worried about aging techniques on a counterfeit adze. So much had happened since then.
The werewolf’s words still troubled him. What if Luc was right, and a sliver of the wendigo still lived within him? He’d suspected it before, of course, but what did that make him? What might happen if it took control? Matt knew the answer. He would kill everyone. Kill them and eat them. But if the demon was still alive, what kept it at bay? He touched the old bullet wound at his chest. Dämoren’s slug rested about an inch below the surface. Would his humanity die if it was removed?
He closed his eyes. Urakael. He rolled the name around inside his head. There was a familiarity to it. He’d heard it before. A dream? No, something deeper. Urakael, he thought again.
“I hear you, Spencer,” a voice said.
Matt’s eyes sprang open, his hand reaching for Dämoren. He turned in his seat, looking around.
Buildings moved past the window outside. They were near the airport.
Matt let out a breath, allowing himself to relax. He’d fallen asleep. More tired than I thought.
“You all right back there?” Malcolm asked, watching him through the rearview.
“Yeah,” Matt said. “Bad dream.”
Malcolm gave an understanding nod. “To be expected after all this.”
They entered the small airport and drove to where white and blue hangers stood lined like tents in some Roman army encampment. The Valducans’ ancient airplane sat inside one of the larger ones near the back.
“Security shows none of Anya’s friends came by,” Malcolm said. “So we should be safe here.” He wheeled the van around and backed in beside a small hatchback and beat up, green truck.
They found everyone in folding chairs, seated before a small flat-screen. Turgen sat in the middle, Luiza and Schmidt on either side. A leather-sheathed sword rested beside Schmidt. Jean’s sword.
“That should not be a problem,” said a voice, its loud volume implying it came through a speaker and not anyone in the room itself.
Luiza gave Matt a glancing smile and he took the seat beside hers. Allan sat at the table by the television, staring at Matt’s black laptop, one of the last ones still working.
A dark-skinned Indian man stared out from the screen. Thin wisps of steel-gray hair circled his shiny bald head. His thick moustache seemed strangely large on his thin face. His sunken eyes and stubbled cheeks told that he’d been awake for too long. The man looked in Matt’s direction, though not directly at him, as he sat down. A window in the lower corner of the screen showed the seated knights from the perspective of a gray, spherical web camera mounted beside Allan.
“Sonu, this is Mister Matthew Hollis,” Turgen said to the screen. He turned to Matt. “Master Rangarajan is one of our Librarians.”
And Ben’s former mentor, Matt remembered.
Sonu gave a brief nod Matt’s direction, then looked back at Turgen. “We searched the databases on demonic mothers,” Sonu said, his voice coming through the speakers. “Lilith being the most notable one. Unfortunately, the symbol does not resemble any of those from Lilith cults we’ve encountered, or at least of any files that Anya left available. That, of course, left us no choice but to consult the original records here. None of them, so far, depict any pictogram of a winged serpent.”
“Any records we had on it would have been the first Anya burned,” Turgen said. “If she hadn’t destroyed them already.”
“Did you check any old databases?” Allan asked. “Old backups or drives that had been offline for a while?”
“We did,” Sonu said. “Unfortunately none of them predate Anya’s time as a Librarian. We can assume any files or records concerning this cult were the first she removed or altered. Uwe’s searching for some old disks he’d held on to, but...” He shook his head. “It will take time.”
Turgen rubbed his chin, massaging his own collection of stubble. “Any theories?”
“One,” Sonu said. “The symbol bears a resemblance to ancient depictions of Tiamat, the Babylonian Goddess.”
Turgen’s brow rose.
“The myth is that Tiamat gave birth to monsters to sow chaos and destruction,” Sonu explained. “She was later slain by Marduk with an invincible spear.”
Matt leaned toward Luiza. “I thought Tiamat was a dragon.”
“Not so,” Sonu said.
Matt sank into his seat, embarrassed the microphone had heard him.
“Tiamat gave birth to many different monsters,” Sonu said. “Including dragons, though she was not one herself. Mythologies never describe Tiamat’s form. Depictions of her vary from a winged lion, a beast with many animal heads, even a bearded woman. But some do portray her as a giant serpent.”
“And you believe the symbol on the medallions is her?” Malcolm asked.
“That is my theory,” Sonu said.
“If that is all we have then we will continue to explore it,” Turgen said. “Good work.”
The Librarian gave a terse smile.
“I look forward to seeing you,” Turgen continued. “Let us know if you find anything more.”
“I will,” Sonu said.
Turgen motioned to Allan and the screen went green.
“We’re going to India?” Luc asked.
“No,” Turgen answered. “They should arrive here in two days. After that, we will pack whatever effects we can, and leave. The chateau is no longer safe.”
“Where are we going?” Luc asked.
“Not we. You are going to Italy. Sonu checked the information on the man you killed, Alessio Brunelli. He was scheduled to fly into Florence yesterday.”
“Florence,” Matt said, searching his memory. “That’s where Anya went to school.”
The old man nodded. “As did Signor Brunelli. He lived in an apartment there until last year. His current address is a postal box.” He smiled. “Mister Havlock, please bring up the picture.”
Allan clicked on the laptop.
“Sonu searched old blog and networking sites for our friend, and found this,” Turgen said, gesturing to the screen.
Matt found himself staring at an image of six people, all in their twenties, he guessed, sitting at a cafe table, holding glasses of wine. Three were men, the others women, but not sitting as couples. One of them, a much younger man in a blue and white striped button up shirt, looked familiar.
“The man from the museum,” Luc said. “The prisoner.”
“May he burn in Hell,” Malcolm growled under his breath.
“Another classmate?” Matt asked.
“Not that we know,” Turgen replied. “However, he was living in the city at the time.”
“Not much of a lead,” Luiza said. “Florence is a big place and there’s no guarantee they’ll stay there.”
Turgen sighed. “It’s all we have. The lunar eclipse is in two weeks and it will cover that area. The weapons might not be destroyed until then. We don’t know what they plan to summon, but if it is some kind of demon mother, we must stop it. Malcolm, I want you to lead them. Luc, Luiza, Allan, and Matt will accompany you.”
Malcolm nodded. “And whe
re will you be going?”
Turgen held up a hand. “I believe it best not to say. If one of you should be corrupted, then the secret will be known to our enemies. We are too fragile at the moment to hold them back should they come for the surviving weapons. We will communicate with the new phones Luc purchased until Sonu can build a fresh network for us.”
“I understand,” Malcolm said.
Schmidt drew a long breath. “Alex, I wish to accompany them.”
Turgen turned to Schmidt, his brows raised in a puzzled expression. “You what?”
“I would like to go to Florence with them,” Schmidt said, flatly.
The knights’ eyes all moved apprehensively away from the old man.
“Max,” Turgen said carefully. “I don’t think that is a good idea.”
“We can search more effectively the more people we have. Lukrasus is still bonded to me; you know that never goes away. Now that Jean is gone, I am her protector and she is calling me to act.”
“You retired, Max,” Turgen said. “Ten years ago.”
“And I have regretted it every day since.”
Turgen crossed his hand over his lap. “You are seventy-three years old. You are out of practice.”
“That does not make me an invalid,” Schmidt said, his blue eyes hard. “I can defend myself. Malcolm and the others can stay to the front line, but I can help find them.”
“Max, you are my friend. Please, I need you. You have more knowledge of our needs and assets than anyone else. We need that knowledge to survive. One of our knights must stay with us in case Anya’s people attack us again. If you go, then someone else stays. I need you here.”
Schmidt swallowed then nodded.
After a tense, but brief silence, Turgen turned to Malcolm. “How quickly can your team leave for Florence?”
Malcolm looked at the others. “We will need to restock weapons and supplies. It’s a long drive. We can leave by this evening.”
From the journal of Sir Ernest Burrows, 1873
23 June - I have arrived in Paris and found the shop of Célestin Dumonthier. He is an agreeable man, and became very excited at my plans. I expressed my desire for all of Dämoren to be used in the pistol’s creation, as well as incorporating the Boxer cartridge. Dumonthier showed me several of his pieces, as well as those of his competitors, asking me which features I wanted most. When he asked if I would leave Dämoren in his care I explained that it was not possible. I told him Dämoren was a treasured heirloom and that I would spend my entire fortune and more to see her rebuilt. He understood and has invited me to stay with him and his brother until the task is complete.
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