Happy End of the World (Demon-Hearted Book 3)

by Ambrose Ibsen

  “Books are nice. But the kid's right. Can you perform? That's all I care about. Don't give a damn about no accolades, about reputation. If you ain't got experience in casting the spell then you're no better than Mr. Kubo here and I imagine the Order's just paying you a whole lot of money to march in here and feed your ego. So, let's talk results, yeah?”

  Arson was red in the face, appeared personally offended by the question. I guess that, for him, it was like he'd invited the Pope over and we were asking him whether he was any good at turning water to wine.

  Atticus played it cool, though. Nodding emphatically, he launched into a scholarly spiel about the spell, about his experience in studying it... and basically avoided Malcolm's question altogether. “The Binding of Hekatonkheir is a potent spell, the most powerful restraint spell in existence. A complicated incantation is necessary, and it must be performed within a magical circle marked with the Seal of Tartarus. Moreover, the caster must spill some of his own blood in its casting and channel his life-force and will. As a result, it is an incredibly dangerous spell, one that could easily result in the death of its caster. I am confident that there is no one alive today with more knowledge about this spell than I.” He sat back contentedly, the smugness of a teenaged debate club member clouding his already schoolmarm features.

  Malcolm lit up, blowing a smoke ring up towards the ceiling. “But what you're saying is... you haven't actually cast it before.”

  Malcolm Sterling was a dirty hick in many regards, but I'll be damned if I wasn't becoming a fan of his.

  Awkward silence reigned.

  “It's not the kind of spell one just practices on weekends,” offered Kubo, trying to clear the air. “I'm sure Master Craven here will have no trouble tonight.” His voice wavered a little, like he wasn't completely sold on the contracted wizard's talk.

  “Let's hope so,” replied Malcolm, taking a drag. “Else we're going to have a big problem. A dead wizard and a rampaging Manticore ain't exactly the best combo. You ready to be the wizard's second, Mr. Kubo? In case he can't put his money where his mouth is?”

  That got under Craven's skin. The veneer of smug professionalism slipped away for a minute, and he slapped at the table with a thin hand. “That'll be quite enough of that. I'll perform the spell tonight, no problem,” he said, extending a crooked finger Malcolm's way. “But I insist you stop using that word, “wizard”. It's degrading, a jokey Earth slur meant to denigrate my profession.”

  Malcolm grinned, cigarette dangling between his lips and hands thrust out in mock concern. “No offense!”

  We were off to the races. Already our legendary hunter and renowned wizard were at each other's throats. Whether they'd be able to play nice until showtime remained to be seen.

  Arson stood up, shot Kubo a death glare, and then moved to the doorway. “Gentlemen, let's stop with the bickering. We are assembled here today to deal with a monumental threat. I hope that everything will go smoothly.” He nodded to Malcolm “Perhaps you should discuss your strategy, yes? You've been making preparations all day. Please brief Kubo. He can pass the details onto me later. In the meantime, please excuse me. The sun has set and the first patrols for the Manticore are set to begin. I will be overseeing them personally.” He left the room.

  Without Arson in the room, what little remained of Craven's politeness evaporated. Looking to Kubo, he thrust out his chin and said of Malcolm, “Who is this grungy man, and why are we to take his orders? This operation is being run by him?”

  Malcolm stood up, tugged on the waistband of his jeans, and put out his cigarette on the tabletop. “That's right. The name's Malcolm Sterling, but that don't matter. The important part is that I'm the one leading the hunt of the Manticore, and if you do your job, I'll be the one putting the critter down. All I need from you is that spell. If Kubo here wants to lead you outside to the platform we put together, you can get started on your preparations. When the beast gets close, you bind it. That's all. Don't you worry about the rest.”

  Before the two could launch into another hostile exchange, Kubo stood and led the wizard-- er, sorcerer, from the room. “Please, this way. I'll show you to the platform.”

  Craven stood and followed the Chief without another word.

  My pocket began to rumble with Germaine's laughter. “That guy takes himself too seriously.” Then, he paused. “But what if he's no more than a lot of talk?”

  Percy, who'd been quiet during the bulk of the brief meeting, looked up at his father. “If he fails, then we all fail. He's pretty pompous, but it doesn't change the fact that we need him to pull through on this.”

  “He's an egg-head, a scholarly type. Maybe he knows his shit, maybe he don't. But I know one thing for sure.” Malcolm paced over to the doorway and looked out into the hall. “If he messes it up and the world ends, he's going to have a hell of a time trying to spend the money the Order's payin' him.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  24

  The Manticore was, in Malcolm's estimation, a big, angry cat that was easily riled. For the world's sake, I hoped he was right.

  The plan was simple. We'd take advantage of the beast's nature, piss it off until it took an interest in our helicopters, and then those helicopters would hightail it back to HQ before getting knocked out of the sky like cheap kites. Hopefully the Manticore would follow them, where ground forces would then take over. There was some serious firepower surrounding the compound, with some MRAPs borrowed from the National Guard, a few missile launchers and some fifty or more commandos all packing powerful rifles.

  And then there were the three of us. Percy, Malcolm and I were going to do our best to keep the creature busy while Atticus the Great cast his spell. If he was successful, the Manticore would be our prisoner and we'd be able to kill it at our leisure; something for which Malcolm already had a few ideas.

  Malcolm was pretty clear that I was going to be the meat-shield. “You're a demon, ain't ya, kid?” He took a puff, knocking a cone of ash onto the corner of the conference room table he'd begun using as his ashtray. “I knew something was different about you before Percy told me. You know, usually I ain't too fond of your kind. I've hunted some demons in my day, killed many a possessed man to free up his soul. But you're different. Why's that? You're different somehow, and I just can't put my finger on it.”

  “I'm a Demon-Heart,” I said, patting my chest. “My ticker isn't my own. It's a demon's.”

  Malcolm didn't really know what to say to this and just took a long drag of his Camel. “Don't say,” he finally replied. “Well, you're going to be the one taking the brunt of it. It can't kill you, probably, so the rest of us are going to whittle away at it from afar while you do your thing. Got it?”

  “I wouldn't have it any other way.” It was my turn to ask him a question. Watching him pace around the room, his person jangling with every step, I asked him about the chainmail he wore beneath his clothing. “That chainmail you're wearing must be awfully hot during the Summer. Why bother?”

  With a grin, Malcolm didn't hesitate in lifting up his shirt, chain and all, to display his bare midriff. There, warped and pink, was a terrible horizontal scar, spanning his entire abdomen. “It's so the critters don't get too handsy. I been hunting a long time, kid. Since I was about ten years old. That was how old I was when my daddy took me on my first hunt. And I learned early on that you've gotta take some precautions. I was a young man when this bog creature took a swipe at me and nearly dumped my guts into the swamp. Ever since then, I been real careful about not letting them get too close. It's the best way, and a little thing like this ain't no inconvenience once you know what you stand to lose by not wearing it.”

  “I see your point.” Watching Germaine leaf through a crumpled issue of Reader's Digest that he'd smuggled out of the lobby, I continued. “This plan of yours. How likely do you think it is that we'll pull through? I mean, what are the odds of winning against this thing?”

  Malcolm cough
ed a little, regarding the cigarette between his fingers and giving it a flick. For a man who was so worried about his wellbeing and wore chainmail armor everywhere he went to keep from getting killed, he sure didn't seem to care a whole lot about what his chain-smoking might do to him. “Usually, my hunts aren't this elaborate.” He pointed at Percy. “Oftentimes it's just me and my boy out in the wilderness, or stalking something through small, rural towns. We know the lay of the land, work with locals to figure out the best hiding spots, best tactics. I'll rig up steel traps, sleep in trees to get my shot. Whatever it takes. This, though... it's a bigger scope. Got millions of people living around here, and it's a jungle made of concrete. And the game we're hunting is jumbo, too. A very different game, and I'd be lying if I said we weren't out of our element. Nonetheless, the process is the same. You hunt this thing, relentlessly. You see what it's made of, test its mettle, do your best to trap it. And if you don't? Well, that means you set out and try it again, fella. You keep on going, never giving the beastie a chance to recover, a moment to regain its stamina. And as long as you're living, long as you're well enough to collect your pay, you keep on following it. That's how you win in my business. Persistence. And there ain't no one in this trade with more of it than me and my boy here. That's how me and the men in my line have made a name for ourselves, and that's why the Order called us first.”

  I'll admit I was impressed at his swaggering, hyper-masculine delivery, and was wondering whether he'd lifted that little passage out of one of the Dirty Harry movies when Germaine chimed in. “Trapping it, yeah, yeah. But what about killing it? Can you kill it?”

  Percy was holding his sword, had eased the blade from its scabbard just a touch to inspect the blade. “I reckon we can kill it. The Sterlings have never run against a creature that they couldn't kill. If there's a way to kill it, we'll find it.”

  “And if there ain't,” the elder Sterling added, “we might just go and make up a way. Kubo tells us we've gotta pierce its heart. Might be tricky, but I expect we'll get it. And once that's done, I'll have the fucker mounted. Gonna look real good as a part of my collection, this one.”

  From the radio fastened to Malcolm's belt there came a chirp. He picked it up, and Kubo's voice drifted into the room. “Malcolm, it's Kubo. The choppers have spotted the Manticore.”

  Mashing the button on the side of the radio, Malcolm raised it to his lips. “Good. Fuck around with it a little, get it good and angry. When it gives chase, let me know. We'll head outside and get into position.”

  A pause. “It's already following the choppers,” said Kubo. “And it's destroyed one of them.” Another pause. “It's bigger than it was before. A lot bigger. It's been feeding, I think.”

  Gritting his teeth, Malcolm barked into the radio. “It changes nothing. The bigger they are, the louder they cry. Lure it here and we'll get started.”

  Percy and I were standing, and Germaine was perched on my shoulder. “So, what are our marching orders?” I asked.

  Malcolm stormed out of the room and down the hall. “First, we're going to check on our wizard, make sure he's ready. Then we're going to wait for that sumbitch to arrive and knock him senseless.” Darting into a different conference room, he emerged with his elephant gun, balanced it against one shoulder and marched out of the complex like a toy solider. Percy broke into a jog and followed behind.

  “Well, here comes the big show,” said Germaine, jumping into my pocket. “It ain't too late to run, you know. Plenty of time to book a flight--”

  I wasn't listening. Knowing what was coming, the demon in me began to writhe, made his presence known through the pounding of my pulse. As I stepped outside I felt my senses heightened. I caught the sharp edge of the cold with my first breath, noticed my vision cutting through the waxy darkness of the young evening, and felt as though I were experiencing reality in a higher definition than the norm. The demon was pumping me up, getting me ready for what was sure to be a trying battle. Perhaps the worst one I'd fought so far.

  Remember what's at stake here, I thought. Give me your best, Gadreel. Nothing less will do.

  My heart took off like a jackhammer as I started across the parking lot.

  What if the demon's best wasn't good enough?

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  25

  For the purpose of giving Atticus Craven enough room to work his intense binding magic, the guys at HQ had constructed a large platform in an open field. It was about eight feet by eight feet, encased in a wooden frame and filled with smooth, white bricks that took well to the black chalk the sorcerer was using. I walked out there to have a look with Germaine and was stunned at the intricacy of his work. He'd mentioned earlier that he'd have to use a detailed magical seal to pull this off, however I hadn't envisioned anything quite like this.

  He'd drawn a triple-walled circle, crammed each of the rings with magical sigils and had filled the center of the seal with still more. This was work that I wouldn't have been able to reproduce even given several hours. Here, Atticus Craven had managed to lay it all down in a flash. It was clear that he knew his shit, had probably practiced this part of the spell countless times over the years.

  The question remained, however. Could he perform the spell—under intense pressure, no less?

  Germaine took a peek at the seal and whistled. “Damn, that's some ornate work there. Never seen anything like it.”

  I approached the platform just as Atticus cast off his robes and the shirt he wore beneath. Standing out in the winter cold, topless, he didn't shiver, didn't seem to notice the brutal temperatures, and met my gaze with severity. “Hey, this is really impressive,” I offered. “Do you... do you need anything else?”

  The sorcerer shook his head, his thick, brown beard being tossed about in the wind as he did so. “No, the preparations are complete.” From his pocket he drew out a dagger in a leather scabbard. He held it with both hands, pacing around the circle and admiring his work. “All that is left now is to cast the spell.”

  “I see.” Leaning in close to the platform and studying the chalk, I sniffed at it. “What kind of chalk is this? Wormwood?” Chalk infused with the ash of Wormwood was the permanent marker of the spellcraft world. Kubo had taught me that during the siege on Mater Agatha's hideout, and master Rinpoche in Tibet had also used it in teaching me my rudimentary magic.

  Atticus arched a brow. “No, of course not. The chalk for this spell requires a very specific component. Human cremains.”

  “Oh.” I gulped, backing away from the platform a few paces. I knew that human blood could amplify a spell's power, but had never heard of mixing human ashes with chalk. I wondered if there was some sort of ethical problem with using human remains in such a way, but then, this wasn't really the time to ask such questions. Considering everything that was at stake, even the most well-meaning ethicist could get fucked.

  Germaine poked his head out of my pocket, blinking up at the sorcerer with his eight eyes. “So, what do you do now? How do you get the bomb to go off, so to speak?”

  Unsheathing the dagger, Atticus clutched it in one fist and brought the tip right up against his open palm. “You're about to witness an unparalleled feat in the history of contemporary magic, so I'll humor you with an explanation.” I was a little annoyed at his arrogant lecturer schtick and was going to ask him whether his nipples were getting rock hard due to the cold, but I refrained out of genuine curiosity. “All spellcraft is a matter of timing, recitation and, most importantly, strength of will. The Binding of Hekatonkheir is no exception. When the time comes, I will shed some of my own blood and dab it upon the four quadrants of this seal.”He motioned to the platform. “North, South, East and West. When that is done, I will begin to recite the requisite incantations. In doing so, energy will be drawn from our surroundings, building steadily within my own body. When it is performed correctly, I need only to transfer said energies into the seal at my feet through force of will, effectively transforming this
platform into a trap for my intended target. In this case, the Manticore. Should the Manticore come within a certain distance of it, it will be snared, immobilized, and forced into permanent slumber.”

  From the other side of the platform I heard a slow, mocking round of applause. “Mighty fine work,” said Malcolm, the boomstick braced within the crook of his arm. “Hope it works.”

  Atticus turned and jabbed at the air with his dagger. “Damn you, it will work. I've prepared for this moment my entire life. Your creature will be tethered to this spot by night's end. Provided you can lure it here, you incompetent hick.”

  Malcolm only laughed. When Kubo wandered near, the old hunter patted his arm. “Status report. Where they at with this thing? I'm getting antsy, want to fire my gun into something, and if I empty a round into that wizard back there it'll be a little counterintuitive, ya know?”

  Kubo picked up his radio and reached out to the panicked-sounding guys in the choppers. From the sounds of it, there were three Black Hawks remaining, all of them taking turns provoking the Manticore about ten miles out from HQ. They'd be arriving any minute now. Shortly thereafter, a separate call on the radio came from Arson. It was a brief one, which informed him that the false-flag operation on the other side of town had gone off without a hitch.

  All of the pieces were in place. All that we needed now was the big bad. I cracked my knuckles, searching the sky for the flying beast. No sign of it.

  Yet.

  I knew it was coming, could feel a change in the air that seemed to presage it and it wasn't simply a case of pre-fight jitters. If I listened real hard, I thought I could hear the Black Hawks cutting through the air, the pounding of machine guns and the boom of the occasional Hellfire missile.

  Germaine crawled out onto the platform and took refuge upon the wooden frame, in a spot where the wind didn't get to him. “I'm gonna hang out here, Lucy. I don't want to get flattened once that thing starts playing dirty, so I'll just sit here with ol' Atticus and watch. Cool? I figure this is probably the safest spot around.”