Band of Demons (The Sanheim Chronicles Book 2)

by Rob Blackwell

  *****

  Kieran looked up from his book to find Elyssa in the doorway.

  “You’re back,” he said and waited. The next two minutes could determine the fate of his little side venture. One misstep and it might spell his doom as well. So he didn’t rush. Kieran was very good at waiting.

  “It’s not him,” she said.

  Could she see him let out a sigh of relief? He hoped not.

  “Why not?” he asked. “He fit the profile. I thought he was a good candidate.”

  Elyssa brushed past Kieran and went to the liquor cabinet. He watched as she poured herself a drink. She sipped it slowly and barely looked at Kieran.

  “He’s a coward,” she said. “Afraid of his own shadow. There’s no chance a man like that faced down his cennad and won. Ergo… it’s not him.”

  Kieran grunted noncommittally.

  “You’re sure?” he asked. “Princes come in lots of different shapes and forms.”

  “Do you know what bothered me most about him?” Elyssa asked as if she hadn’t heard Kieran at all. “His sanctimoniousness. His self-righteousness. Not only was Robertson’s death a tragedy, but even the murder of Lord Halloween was wrong. As if he’s a judge.”

  “I suspect you may have missed his point,” he replied.

  Elyssa glanced at him sideways, as if he were making fun of her. He got up and fixed himself a drink as well.

  “I’m just saying I know the type,” Kieran said. “I didn’t hear what he said, but I’d guess he was trying to say he wasn’t the judge. Hence why those murders were wrong.”

  Elyssa’s face darkened with renewed anger.

  “Some people,” she said slowly, “deserve to die.”

  Kieran nodded.

  “On that score, my dear,” he replied, “we definitely agree.”

  He held his glass in the air in what he hoped looked like a peace offering. He had thought his plans would be disrupted by Sawyer’s little escapade. Instead, the situation now appeared to be fully in control. The next phase of the endeavor could begin.

  Elyssa clinked her glass against his.

  “Some people definitely deserve to die,” she said again.

  Yes, Elyssa, Kieran thought. And you are one of them.

  Chapter 11

  September 20, 2007

  Kate was trying not to look bored. She had worked for two newspapers before the Chronicle, and the staff meetings here seemed to stretch on for an eternity. She idly wondered if hell would be like this: a big, long editorial meeting. They held them once a week and Rebecca had threatened to start holding them more often if people didn’t shorten their story pitches. Kate thought she should raise the ante and give people electric shocks once they went beyond two minutes.

  “One more thing,” Alexis said, and Kate had to resist the impulse to groan. She could tell Quinn felt the same way; he was thinking repeatedly about his conversation with the British reporter a few days ago. “I’ve received complaints again about graffiti at Park View High School. Some concerned parents think this might be gang-related activity.”

  “Okay,” Rebecca said. “Have they filed police reports?”

  “Yes, that’s what they told me,” Alexis replied and looked at Quinn, who was rather obviously staring off into space.

  “Quinn?” Rebecca asked. Quinn looked around in a panic, as if a teacher had just called on him.

  They want to know if there have been police reports about graffiti at Park View High School, Kate thought.

  How the hell should I know? Quinn responded.

  Well, honey, I think they are under the impression that you are the crime reporter, she responded.

  I’ve been chasing a murderer, he thought back.

  So, tell them that.

  “Sorry, Alexis, I haven’t been checking all of the police reports,” Quinn replied with a touch more defensiveness than he intended. “I’ve been a little distracted by the murders. I’ll look into it.”

  Both Rebecca and Alexis nodded as if that was the end of the matter when Helen jumped in. Kate could sense Quinn tense up as soon as she started talking.

  “Well, it’s not just parents who are concerned,” Helen said. “I’ve talked to several people on the school board who are worried about increased gang activity in Sterling. Delegate Reger told me yesterday that he’s concerned the community will soon be overrun.”

  “Overrun? Seriously?” Quinn responded. “In Sterling?”

  “Quinn, have you ever considered the fact that the two murders could be, in fact, gang related?” Helen said, staring at Quinn imperiously. “You need to keep an open mind.”

  “An open…”

  Keep your cool, Quinn, Kate thought at him. She knew how hard it was for him though. Helen had never particularly liked Quinn, viewing herself as the star reporter at the Loudoun Chronicle because she covered politics. But she had turned openly antagonistic after the Lord Halloween story had earned Kate and Quinn so much praise.

  “Yes, an open mind,” Helen continued, not bothering to let Quinn finish. “You keep chasing these ghost stories, when gangs might fit the profile better.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry, I didn’t realize you were suddenly an expert in violent crime, Helen,” Quinn said. “Or that I was off chasing ‘ghost stories’?”

  “Well, really, what’s more believable? That some masked vigilante has taken to killing people or that South American gangs have infiltrated Loudoun County?” she replied.

  Bill started chuckling in the corner while most everyone else except Rebecca and Tim looked awkwardly away.

  “When you put it that way…” Quinn said, and theatrically rolled his eyes at her.

  “I’m serious,” she said. “It’s a growing problem in this county. Everyone is concerned about it. You just have to open your eyes.”

  “You really believe everything they tell you, don’t you?” Quinn said.

  “What is that supposed to mean?” Helen asked.

  “If Delegate Reger told you that radical homosexuals had joined forces with the immigrants to corrupt our youth, you’d buy it hook, line and sinker,” Quinn said. “I’m not worried about gangs in Sterling because there are no gangs there. It’s something the media and politicians dream up to distract citizens from what’s really going on.”

  Helen glared at him.

  “It’s a very real problem,” she said.

  “Right,” Quinn said. “Just like dog poop in people’s yards was a real problem.”

  Both Josh and Bill, the two photographers who spent most of their time trying not to talk during staff meetings, started laughing at that.

  “Oh, please, not this again,” Alexis said.

  “If there are no gangs in Sterling, how do you explain the graffiti?” Helen asked.

  “Gee, I don’t know, Helen,” Quinn said. “I’m sure there’s no other possible explanation than gangs for someone drawing on a wall. It’s not like any bored high school student could do that. It’s a good thing Janus isn’t here for this. He spent most of his teenage years in Sterling and…”

  “Well, he’s not here, is he? He’s dead,” Helen said, and Kate could tell the moment it was out of her mouth that she regretted it.

  Quinn leapt to his feet and slammed his hands on the table.

  “I don’t need you to tell me he’s dead, Helen,” Quinn said with a cold fury. “I found his body, remember?”

  “Quinn…” Tim began.

  “And where were you, Helen? Where were you when our dear friend and colleague was picking off Janus and others here one by one, huh?” Quinn said. “Hiding somewhere like a scared rabbit. Laurence called you a dozen times, did you know that? He was worried something had happened to you too.”

  “Quinn, stop it now!” It was Rebecca who broke through.

  Quinn remained standing, staring at Helen.

  Sit down, Quinn, Kate thought. This isn’t helping.

  Lord Halloween should have killed her instead, he thought.

  �
��Sit down, Quinn,” Tim said.

  With obvious reluctance, Quinn took his seat. Kate was bothered by the entire episode. Despite his feuding with Helen over the years, the sheer rage Quinn felt toward her was rare. She wondered how much the stress of everything they were going through—the murders, knowing something was hunting them, the re-transformation into the Prince of Sanheim—was getting to him.

  I miss Janus, he thought.

  I know, Kate said. I miss him too.

  “I think we’ve agreed Quinn will look into the graffiti,” Rebecca said. “And continue his look into the recent murders. Now I’d like to talk about Sports. Steven…”

  Quinn didn’t even hear her anymore. He just sat there brooding on everything.

  We’re spinning our wheels, he said. We’re waiting again. Waiting for something to happen. Waiting for another clue. And I’m through waiting.

  We’ll find the answers, she said. We always do.

  But he just sat there, quietly fuming. The rest of the meeting passed him by entirely and when others filtered out, he still sat there.

  Kate waited for him, watching his mind turn through a continuous series of dark images. Finally, he stood up.

  “Where are you going?” she asked, but she knew.

  “I’m going to grab Bill and take a look at the graffiti,” he said, before adding sarcastically, “Who knows? Maybe it will be the clue we need.”

  He had no idea just how right he was.

  *****

  It was Kate who made the connection.

  Quinn was only focused on punching out a story, never thinking or even looking closely at what the drawings were. He studied them when Bill excitedly dropped the photos on Quinn’s desk.

  The graffiti was impressive—whoever had done it had real talent. In one, two serpents were intertwined so that you couldn’t tell where one ended and the other began. Another was the picture of a giant bear. They seemed vaguely familiar and didn’t look like typical gang symbols, not that Quinn knew what those were.

  They’re not, Kate said in his head. She was out on assignment in Purcellville. They’re from the book.

  Book?

  The Crowley book. The one we found at Zora’s.

  Crowley’s book was divided into 17 chapters. At the top of each one was a drawing. They never seemed to connect to what Crowley was writing about, but it was hard to tell since the words themselves didn’t make much sense.

  Quinn looked at Bill’s prints. There were only four graffiti prints, but they were clearly some of the same drawings from Crowley’s book: The serpent, the bear, a spider and a flaming sword.

  Strange, Quinn thought. So they’ve moved from killing people to defacing public property. Aren’t you supposed to work your way up in criminal activity, not down?

  Kate chuckled in his mind.

  Actually, it’s a good point, she thought. These drawings were clearly meant for us, but were they done by the same people who killed Zora and Robertson?

  I find it hard to believe that this isn’t connected to someone pretending to be the Prince of Sanheim, Quinn thought.

  I’m sure it is, she replied. But how? Presumably Robertson’s murder was the obvious message to us. Why bother doing this?

  Unless it’s not a message, Quinn thought suddenly. His mind was racing. Robert Crowley’s book was one of several. The only reason it was any different was that it was unpublished. Kate and Quinn could find no record of it in his official bibliography.

  What if the symbols drawn here aren’t just in the book we have? He thought. What if they are in others?

  The drawings aren’t a message, Kate agreed. They’re the key—the key to a code.

  *****

  They had to wait until the evening to test their theory. Quinn quickly filed his story on the graffiti, suggesting that it didn’t look much like gang activity. Helen and the local politicians wouldn’t be pleased, but Quinn didn’t care. He knew it wasn’t a gang. However, his story did not make any connection between the drawings and the Prince of Sanheim.

  But that evening their discovery was more frustrating than fruitful. All told, there were 17 symbols in Crowley’s unpublished book—one for each chapter. All of them were repeated in his other works, but there was no discernable pattern or connection.

  “We have nothing,” Quinn said finally.

  They had been staring at the books for hours. An interesting side effect of their Prince of Sanheim abilities was that they seemed to need less sleep. As they got closer to Halloween, they were less tired. When evening came, it felt like their energy-level was higher than ever.

  That wasn’t to say they didn’t sleep at all. It was still mid-September and they needed at least four hours a night, as far as Quinn could tell. But he was starting to wonder if soon he wouldn’t need any at all.

  Kate looked at the clock. It was 4 a.m. Even if they slept now, they wouldn’t have much time before they needed to return to work.

  “We have something,” she said. “We have a start.”

  “A lead that’s sending us in circles,” he said. “Someone is out there killing people and sending us riddles.”

  “I’m not sure it’s the same person,” she replied. “I think these drawings are meant to help us.”

  “Why would they do that?” he asked.

  “Not sure,” she said. “Maybe someone knows what’s going on and wants us to know more too.”

  “Next time they should just send a note,” Quinn said.

  “That’s the thing,” she replied. “I think this is the equivalent and a test at the same time.”

  “Awesome, because we haven’t had enough of those,” Quinn replied, thinking of his test against his cennad last year. It had nearly killed him.

  “We beat that one,” Kate said, and laid her hand on top of his. “We’ll beat this one too.”

  “Easy for you to say,” Quinn said. “I had to face my cennad alone. You didn’t have a test.”

  Kate laughed.

  “So you’d like me to face my worst fear?” she asked.

  Quinn smiled.

  “If you do, could you make sure it’s the Stay Puft Marshmallow Man?” he said. “I’ve always wanted to build a proton pack.”

  Kate’s smile faded and she looked at him seriously. Quinn could stare at her forever. He loved everything about her, but particularly her eyes, which were a brilliant shade of blue. All the heads had turned when that British reporter, Elyssa, had walked through the office, but Quinn thought Kate was a thousand times more beautiful.

  “I think you may be a bit biased,” Kate said, reading his thoughts. “The only thing I fear is losing you.”

  “Never going to happen,” Quinn said.

  The words hung in the air as they kissed.

  “Better not,” she said when they broke apart. “Because I’m never letting you go.”

  “We should go to bed,” Quinn said.

  “And sleep?” Kate asked.

  Quinn smiled again.

  “I may have had something else in mind first,” he said. “It’s only 4:00 a.m. The night is young.”

  “Sure,” Kate replied. “Besides, I have an idea so we can get another lead.”

  “Do tell,” Quinn replied.

  “It’s simple really,” she replied. “We just need to find out who is making the graffiti.”

  “And how are we going to do that?” Quinn asked, but he thought he knew the answer.

  “It’s time for the Headless Horseman of Loudoun County to ride again.”

  Chapter 12

  September 22, 2007

  The figure raced through the woods, moving quickly down the path. A small sliver of moonlight filtered through the trees, but the forest remained almost completely dark. The only sound was the pounding of horse hooves on the dirt and the scurrying of animals that fled ahead of him.

  His horse changed directions in a flash. His cloak flew out behind him as he moved through the trees and across a field.

  To a
nything in his way, he was a terrifying figure. He rode a black horse with red eyes that seemed to flash each time one of its legs hit the ground. The man riding the horse was dressed in an old, decayed uniform that smelled of rot and ruin. A sword rested in a dirty scabbard by his side. But his most distinctive feature was not in what he had, but what he lacked. The figure that blasted across the field rode with direction and purpose, but had nothing but air where a head should be.

  He couldn’t see or hear. How could he, when he had no eyes or ears? He should have been rushing blindly anywhere.

  But the Headless Horseman sensed everything in and around his path. Every tree, every stone on the ground was known to him. He sensed a small raccoon in the trees as he blew past. He knew the carcass of a deer rotted in a nearby stream as he jumped over it. He felt every sound that was made by the creatures in the darkness as each vibration reached him and bounced off again.

  The Headless Horseman saw nothing and heard nothing, but knew everything.

  Somewhere inside of him, he knew his name was Quinn O’Brion. He remembered what it was like to walk, to touch, to feel and to love.

  But none of that mattered now. Instead, he felt the wind rush past him and the fear of every living thing that beheld him. He fed on that fear like a glutton. It made him faster, more powerful—unstoppable.

  The Headless Horseman rode through the darkness.

  *****

  They called themselves the 20164 Posse.

  Stefan had come up with the name himself, naming his “gang” after Sterling’s zip code. He was pretty proud of it. Sure, it was no MS-13, a name guaranteed to strike fear in the hearts of certain people, but it would do. Everyone had to start somewhere.

  He watched Ricky finish spray-painting the Wachovia Bank branch in Cascades. The kid had talent. Stefan wasn’t sure what the symbol meant—he doubted Ricky did either—but a job was a job.

  He wasn’t sure why the guy had hired them and he didn’t care. But this was his fourth paying gig in less than a week—all to paint a freaky symbol on a wall. Clearly, they were making a name for themselves.

  “Come on, man, let’s go,” he called to Ricky.