by Hunter Blain
Mouth of Madness
Preternatural Chronicles Book 4
Hunter Blain
Contents
A message from Hunter Blain
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Epilogue—Part 1
Epilogue—Part 2
TEASER: WHAT THE HELL (BOOK 5)
MAKE A DIFFERENCE
ABOUT HUNTER BLAIN
BOOKS BY HUNTER BLAIN
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
Hunter Blain
Mouth of Madness
Preternatural Chronicles Book 4
© 2020, Hunter Blain / Argento Publishing, LLC
[email protected]
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. This book contains material protected under International and Federal Copyright Laws and Treaties. Any unauthorized reprint or use of this material is prohibited. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without express written permission from the author / publisher.
A message from Hunter Blain
My name is Hunter, and I’m a wordaholic. I’m also about to break the fourth wall…of your mindhole. Because there is a true story behind this…well…story.
It begins with two best friends who grew up together, breaking rules and raising hell as they shaped each other’s personalities into the shameless assholes they are today. Well, at least for one of them, but I’ll get to that in a moment. These two boys—let’s call them Hunter and John—were all but inseparable. John excelled at creating music powerful enough to make angels weep and being the funniest asshole in Texas while Hunter dabbled—poorly, I might add—in his humble writings. Because they were self-declared brothers from other mothers, John respected Hunter’s humble writings as much as I—I mean Hunter (stupid third person perspective)—respected John’s musical magic. John’s tunes could have changed the world, one day…
One evening, after reading one of Hunter’s horrifically detailed short stories about a serial killer, John asked Hunter to write a story about him.
“Hell yeah, dude! What do you want to be?” Hunter asked, brimming with honor and biting back a very manly squee.
“A vampire,” John responded with a mischievous gleam in his eye. “But not one of those sparkly ones. A true bad ass!”
“Done!” Hunter crowed with a smile and an accompanying high five.
“No, dude. Promise. Promise you’ll write and finish a book about me. You are the most prolific writer of our generation!” John said. (Something like that. I might be paraphrasing a little, but you get the gist of it). “I would consider it an honor to live on for eternity with your words as my life’s blood.”
Hunter agreed, never to realize the weight of that promise until one Sunday morning when his mother called, crying incoherently.
John…had died.
Hunter was left in a cold world without his best friend and doppelgänger, and still thinks about that phone call to this day. How the morning light crept through the bedroom window while Hunter stared at the ceiling, noticing how the popcorn texture created cruel, jagged shadows. How everything started to blur as his chest was crushed beneath the weight of what he was hearing, each word stacking heavily upon the other until only fitful, ragged gasps of air could escape his throat. Only fiery tears existed, especially after the horrific realization that Hunter now had to make some of the hardest phone calls of his life to the circle of friends who orbited around John’s solar pull.
Their bright star was no more, extinguished in an instant, leaving their universe a colder and darker place.
John not only left Hunter, but a friend named Valenta as well. There was also Nathanial and Depweg. The friends were each stricken numb with the loss of such a beloved flare of life. But…
When the three found out that Hunter was keeping his promise to write the greatest story ever told—starring their dear friend, John—they demanded to be a part of the adventure. Each of them immediately knew what type of supernatural character they wanted to play in this urban fantasy eulogy. It would be a funeral pyre of words, and their fictional personas would be John’s pallbearers.
So please, as you read the following pages, feel free to laugh. Laugh at the situations John is placed in and his dickish dialogue to those around him, because John is 100% in this story without alteration (albeit he is a vampire). Laugh and let his memory live on inside the theater of your mind. Like he does in ours.
Thank you, sincerely, from the bottom of my beating heart, for giving my best friend the chance to live again. You are part of this magical ritual, and that would make him the happiest man in the…well, wherever the hell he is.
Cheers,
~Hunter
Epigraph
“It is sometimes an appropriate response to reality to go insane.”
Philip K. Dick
“I guess that’s just part of loving people: You have to give things up. Sometimes you even have to give them up.”
Lauren Oliver
Seal of the Council
Prologue
“I understand, my master. I am humbled you would share such desired information with your grateful servant,” the warlock said in hellion-speak before breaking the connection of his salt circle with the toe of his boot. The green-and-red flames of his candles, which had been reaching a full foot toward the ceiling, receded to normal, orange teardrops illuminating the secure attic of his home. There was a pungent aroma of incense in the air.
“Benji…” The warlock let the words out reverently as the orange flames danced in the reflection of his unfocused eyes. As he connected the salt circle again with grains from a wooden bowl on a nearby desk, the orange teardrops flickered as if a door had been opened in the room before abruptly growing in intensity. Green and red swirled around the orange flames until only the hellfire remained, like an insatiable disease with no cure.
The warlock let the information he had just received marinate in his mind, fueling the rage building in his chest. Teeth were bared, akin to a hungry wolf, as a strand of drool was forced over tight, white lips with each ragged breath.
Through a clenched jaw and with shaking fists that began to bleed where trimmed nails pierced flesh, the warlock began chanting in hellion. He poured all his overflowing malice and brimming hatred into the summoning, watching as the squat candles billowed impossibly dense flames. The room began to shimmer from the immense heat of Hell itself as the doorway started to open in the wooden floor.
Blood flowed freely from his hands, dripping onto the ground. The warlock swung his fists at the flames, allowing the circle to consume his life force and binding the biblically ancient demon lord to his will. Not a warlock alive today had the power to do what the father of Benji Silver was doing at that moment. Not a warlock alive had the copious, efficacious fuel that only an avenging parent could hold onto and age into the fine and potent hatred that coursed through his pulsing veins.
His chant grew to a violent scream as the demon lord fought the binds that chained him, trying to reverse the spell and enslave the warlock. Hellfire began erupting from the circle in the ground, crashing to the ceiling in a pillar that was barely controlled by the containment spell. Ethereal cracks began forming up its length like forks of lightning as the demon fought to overpower his prison. Thunder rolled, nearly deafening the man, who started bleeding from his ears. The air smelled of sulfur, and lungs ached with every sweltering breath. From his peripheral vision, he saw the room begin to waver from the expanding heatwaves, as if they were searching for a weakness to exploit.
Silver extended his dripping hands, fingers outstretched, and sent green-and-purple electricity shooting into the flames. Shadows furiously danced along the shelf-lined walls like a reverse strobe light, while ancient books shook, threatening to leap from their numerous weathered cases.
Evenly matched with the demon, the warlock braced a leg in front, inhaled sharply, and focused on the image that had been forever chiseled into his memory.
A tiny hand still remained within the handcuffs with pale, tattered flesh hanging loose. Below, Benji’s body lay unmoving, only his oversized coat flaps curling and uncurling in the wind to tease an impossible hope that the boy might still be alive. Tears were frozen in the corner of one eye, the other being hidden by the snow he rested in…
No. Not rested. Benji was dead, and that fucking wolf had taken his life.
The warlock roared at the demon as the purple-and-green lightning grew in both thickness and number of tendrils wrapping around the furious monster, piercing deep into defiant muscles. The warlock’s wrath was not to be denied, not even by Lucifer himself.
There was a bellow of rage and indignation as the hellfire eased, revealing the fiercest demon lord to ever walk the Earth since the time of the Great Fall.
“Kneel before me, Asmodeus, for I am your master now,” Silver commanded with complete authority.
As lightning danced over his form, Asmodeus showed his acquiescence and did as commanded by kneeling for Grand Master Silver. As he did, the portal to Hell closed, leaving Silver alone with his obedient subject. The Grand Master Warlock dropped his hands, breaking off the attack, and looked upon his loyal minion appraisingly.
Two sets of horns extended from a skeletal visage. The first set jutted directly from the sides of the skull in thick swoops that arched downward slightly before drastically changing course and shooting straight up. They were as wide as the demon himself. The second set sprouted from atop the skull and curved upward immediately, almost like those of a bull.
The skull was humanoid, save for a protruding set of jaws that contained fangs instead of flat teeth. His skin drifted like a mist, somewhere between corporeal and incorporeal, like the orange glow of embers as seething heat pulsated and crawled through charcoal.
“What is your bidding, my master?” Asmodeus rumbled with a voice made of brimstone.
Grand Master Silver smiled as he announced the sole purpose of the demon lord. “Bring me the head and soul of the werewolf who murdered my son. Bring me Jonathan Depweg.” He then broke the salt circle with his boot and sealed the unbreakable command.
“It shall be done,” Asmodeus rumbled while bowing slightly. The demon began shifting into incorporeal mist with glowing red eyes, before growing in size now that he had been freed from his cylindrical cage. The hulking mass walked to—and through—the wall that lead outside, disappearing into the infinite expanse of night.
“I will personally kill the vampire for you, my lord, Lucifer; right after I watch the life fade from the werewolf’s eyes as I eat his fucking soul,” the warlock promised to the room with a hiss.
Grand Master Silver then began a throaty chuckle as he approached a tall enchanted safe which unlocked at his command. It swung open to reveal several shelves housing rare and powerful artifacts plucked from various key points in time.
Inside, affixed to the top of an obsidian staff that was said to have been crafted by Lord Lucifer himself, was the Spear of Destiny—the weapon that had pierced Jesus of Nazareth’s side, and which was still coated with his dried, powerful blood. The once holy relic had been transferred from hand to hand over the years, until arriving in Silver’s possession. The unsavory character he had procured it from in the back alleys of Jerusalem so long ago hadn’t demanded anything in return. The warlock hadn’t known why, until now. His master’s influence was without limit.
The supreme leader of the warlocks lifted the weapon to inspect it, feeling the raw power course through his body. Grand Master Silver had the distinct honor of wielding the staff in times that required its dangerous, unholy power. The obsidian weapon acted as a focusing agent for the warlock’s immense power, bestowed upon him by the Lord of Hell himself. With it, Silver was confident he would be able to level entire vast cities in an instant. Never before had he used the enchanted staff and spear together, but now it was time. Seeing the Spear of Destiny—which had tempted the man countless times with its promise of unfathomable power—fastened to the tip of the staff gave the Grand Master a sense of wonder and awe. It was no longer in the realm of impossibility that entire countries could fall before his will.
Silver wanted to question why such a weapon would be needed against a simple vampire, but decided that he had waited long enough to test its true potential in battle.
The intruding thought of the werewolf—which had plagued the man for a century—made his knuckles grow into snow-peaked mountains as he fiercely gripped the staff that could level entire countries.
The werewolf would die. And when the vampire caused the gates of Hell to spill open, Silver would spend eternity making Jonathan Depweg suffer, just as his lord and master had promised.
Tight hands relaxed around the black staff as the throaty chuckle returned with renewed vigor, growing into a maniacal laughter that only a century of agonizing waiting could bring.
Spittle flew from his cackling mouth as lightning cracked the sky outside when the Grand Master Warlock let go the control he had over his vast power for a moment. Clouds roiled, sheets of rain fell, and electricity that was not quite the right color illuminated the darkness in a mixture of purple and green.
A domino toppled, and the end began.
1
“I need to pee,” Joey said over his shoulder as we flew over the border into Mexico. We had been flying for several hours in silence as we both contemplated the severity of our mission.
“I told you to go before we left,” I whispered in his ear before giving it a loud kiss. Joey flinched and tried to backhand me, but from how we were positioned, it made it hilarious and difficult.
We had created a harness system that connected over my neck and waist to create a more comfortable ride for Joey. My bloodwings flapped intermittently, letting us soar just below the cloud cover. I used my phone to periodically check that I was still heading in the direction Locke had marked.
“Seriously,” Joey continued, “let me down or I’m pulling it out while flying.”
“I mean, that doesn’t really bother me considering your lipstick is pointing down,” I said to the werewolf.
“Dude!”
“Alright, alright. Jeez. Calm down or I’m gonna have to muzzle you.”
“Listen here, hemo, that’s two dog jokes too many.”
“Hemo? That’s a new one.”
“You know, for hemoglobin?”
“Yeah, I got it. Just…haven’t heard that one before. You just came up with it?”
“Been thinking about it since Corpus Christi,” Joey admitted.
“Eh, not bad.” That was all the congratulations Joey was going to get for coming up with a vampire-specific slur. I’d have to step up my game.
We landed and Joey undid the buckles holding us together. As he stepped away and undid his zipper, I took a moment to check my phone.
I opened my index finger and thumb into an L, and a holographic screen spra
ng to life in an instant. I opened the maps app that was synced with Locke’s phone and was both dismayed and pleased that Depweg’s last known location had been updated. I was dismayed because that meant he had probably killed again, for Locke to have been able to locate him. I was pleased because that meant he wasn’t dead…yet.
“We got a ping,” I announced as Joey walked up while closing his fly.
“Where’s he at?”
“Just outside San Luis Potosi. Locke added a note,” I informed my were companion as I read it. “‘The gulf cartel has been completely eradicated. He’s moving on to the Zetas-controlled region now.’”
“Well, that’s good, right?”
“Which part?”
“He’s eliminated an entire cartel. That’s good, right?” Joey asked, hope sloppily glued to his words like a last-minute gift wrapping.
“I don’t know, man. It says to me that he has the mental wherewithal to plan and carry out a mission while in his feral form. That kinda scares the shit out of me.”
“No! It means we can talk to him and he’ll understand. That’s good!”
“He’s still leaving behind no witnesses, brother. That means that women, kids, and even old people who are immediately related to any cartel member are being torn to shreds.” Joey looked up at me with a trembling bottom lip. He tried to hide his loss of hope with a tough-guy expression, but the harder he tried to push down his emotions, the more they squeezed between his fingers.
