Dark Hollows (A Finn McCoy Paranormal Thriller Book 4)

by Scott Langrel

  “I don’t know. He’s a tough old bird.”

  “He’s nothing,” the demon laughed. “And you, you’re less than nothing. You’re barely worthy of killing.”

  “You’re hurting my feelings. Why do you demons have to be so mean?”

  McCoy appeared at the back door.

  “Okay, here’s the deal. I’m going to break the seal surrounding the house. When I do, you’ll have a choice. Leave of your own accord, or come in and be banished. I’m ready for you this time, dog breath.”

  “Then you’re a bigger fool than I thought,” the demon replied.

  “Suit yourself,” McCoy said, and kicked at the red brick dust under the door. He turned and disappeared inside.

  “Don’t go anywhere,” Asmodeous said to Wolf. “I’ll be back for you presently.”

  “Do hurry.”

  The demon loped into the house, confident but still cautious. The back room which it entered had once been a porch, but had been walled in to make an extra room. An entranceway led into what was presumably the kitchen. The smell of meat wafted through the doorway.

  Slowly, the demon entered the kitchen. The girl stood within a protective circle, flanked by McCoy and the other human girl the demon had held hostage. It smiled; it would get to kill her, after all. An added bonus.

  “One thing about protective circles,” Asmodeous said. “They can be broken down, given enough time. And now that I’m inside, we have all the time in the world.”

  “Are you going to come over here?” Pru asked. “Or are you going to stand over there and bore us to death?”

  “So anxious?” the demon asked. It looked around the room, paying attention to the corners and ceiling. “I’m sure you think you’re going to trap me, don’t you? Now, where have you hidden the marks? They have to be visible to work, you know.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” McCoy said. “This is a straight-up fight. You and me.”

  “You and I, to be proper,” the demon corrected. “And I’m not stupid. Ah! I see! There in the corner.” It pointed to a small, crudely-drawn seal on the wall. “And another!” It stood and surveyed the room, eventually finding several more marks. Finally, the fiend relaxed and faced McCoy.

  “I would have expected better from you, McCoy. The trap is sound, but not well-placed. You have left me an avenue.”

  “I haven’t left anything,” McCoy said. “Take one more step and you’ll see for yourself.”

  The demon smiled and edged close to the kitchen counter. Slowly it began to advance on them.

  “McCoy!” Pru cried, alarmed. “You said it would be trapped!”

  “I don’t know what’s wrong,” McCoy replied, looking about frantically. “I was sure I had everything laid out right.”

  “It’s still coming!” Rena shrieked.

  The demon continued to move closer. So intent was it on Pru that it failed to notice the pan of burning embers sitting on the counter. A slender tendril of smoke rose from the embers.

  “Subsisto!” McCoy called in a panicked voice.

  “Your commands mean nothing to me,” the demon said haughtily. It inched closer to the pan on the counter.

  “Commoror!”

  “Ha!” the fiend laughed. It began to pass by the burning embers.

  “Say goodbye,” McCoy said.

  The demon paused and cocked its head. “Say goodbye?”

  “Yeah. Cause you’re leavin’.”

  A small whiff of smoke found its way into the demon’s nostrils. Its eyes widened, and it had time to give one final, enraged howl before its body lost form and began to dissipate. As if it were being sucked by a large, invisible vacuum cleaner, it began to swirl faster and faster until it vanished into nothingness.

  “And that, as they say, is that,” McCoy said.

  The front door opened and Becky walked in. She was carrying two bags of groceries, and she almost dropped them when she saw the McCoy and the girls standing in the middle of the kitchen. Stopping in her tracks, she stared at the circle on the floor and the remains of the catfish on the counter.

  “Sorry about the mess,” Pru said quickly. “We thought we’d surprise you with dinner.”

  “We may have burned it,” McCoy said.

  Wolf came rushing through the back door. He stopped when he saw Becky.

  “Am I early?” he asked. He caught a whiff of burning fish guts and curled his nose.

  “Smells great. When do we eat?”

  Epilogue

  “That was, without a doubt, the best fried chicken I’ve ever had,” Wolf said as he leaned back in his chair and rubbed his belly.

  “I’ll bet you say that to all the people you save,” Becky said. “There’s still some left, if you can find some more room.”

  Wolf shook his head. “I’m stuffed. I probably won’t eat again for three days.”

  “I might could eat another chicken leg,” McCoy said. “And a biscuit, if Pru didn’t eat them all.”

  “I’m a growing kid,” Pru protested. “Plus, I missed breakfast this morning.”

  “Thank you for pitching in to clean,” Becky said to Wolf and McCoy. “If I’d known that you’d just banished a Prince of Hell, I wouldn’t have torn into you so hard.”

  “It’s nothing,” McCoy said. “And I’m sure those marks will come off the wall with a little more scrubbing. I didn’t realize it was a permanent marker when I grabbed it.”

  “That’s okay. I was thinking of painting the kitchen, anyway.”

  “So, Pru says the demon went back to Hell,” Rena said. “What’s to keep it from coming back?”

  McCoy shrugged. “It takes a while for a demon to ‘recharge its batteries’ after coming to our plane. And there are certain rules that they have to follow regarding returning after being banished. You won’t have to worry about that particular demon for a long time.”

  “That’s good to know,” Becky said. “But why does Hell have it in for my little girl? And what if they send more?”

  “Supernatural entities don’t particularly like humans who can sense and see them,” McCoy said. “Especially the evil ones. I spent my teenage years dodging the Fey back home.”

  “But I feel kind of helpless,” Becky said. “I just want Pru to feel safe. Hell, I want to feel safe.”

  “Pru knows how to protect the house, and she’s learning more every day. She had this place more secure than Fort Knox, Becky. A Prince of Hell couldn’t enter until I let it in. That’s saying something.”

  “I know, but I can’t keep her inside all the time.”

  “And you shouldn’t try. She’ll be fine. And I’m only a few hours away, if it comes to that.”

  “And I’m only a phone call away,” Wolf added. “If you need me, I’ll get here as fast as I possibly can.”

  “I appreciate it, guys,” Becky said. “Are you sure you have to go? I can make room if you’d both like to spend the night.”

  Wolf shook his head. “I need to get to Philadelphia as soon as possible.”

  “Are you having more visions?” Pru asked excitedly.

  “Yes. Of money. My cousin owns a garage up there, and he’s going to put me to work. Protecting people from ghosts and goblins doesn’t pay much, and funds are running low.”

  “What about you, Finn?” Becky asked. “Surely you can stay another night?”

  “Amanda’s getting lonely back home. And the sheriff of Shallow Springs gets nervous when I’m away. He likes having me close by.”

  “I’m sure he does.”

  “I have to go, too,” Rena said. “Mom’s pretty hot at me right now.”

  “She’d be hotter if she knew the truth,” Pru said pointedly. “What were you thinking, going up there alone? And after you promised me you wouldn’t.”

  “I know. I’m sorry. But you can bet your life it won’t happen again, now that I know what’s really out there.”

  “About that,” McCoy said. “It’s probably best to keep all that be
tween Pru and yourself. It’ll save your parents thousands in therapy bills.”

  “Like anyone would believe me, anyway.”

  “Just sayin’.”

  “Well,” Wolf said, rising from the table. “It’s not getting any earlier. This time of year, I like to travel at night. It’s a lot cooler that way.”

  “Yeah, I’m off as well,” McCoy said. “I’ll call in the morning and make sure everything’s good. Pru, don’t forget to check the red brick dust before you go to bed.”

  Pru got up and hugged Wolf, then McCoy. “I wish you guys could just stay,” she said.

  “We’ll keep in touch,” Wolf promised. “I’m sure I’ll be needing the advice of a handler from time to time.”

  “Enjoy the rest of your summer,” McCoy said. “Hang out at the pool. Do the stuff any normal girl your age would do. Lord knows, we grow up too quickly.”

  After a final round of goodbyes, McCoy and Wolf walked to their vehicles. The heat of the day was beginning to dissipate, and the ride for both men promised to be comfortable and enjoyable. Wolf straddled his Harley, and McCoy hopped into his topless Jeep.

  “You need anything, you have my number,” McCoy said as he started the engine.

  “Same here,” Wolf replied. “Good meeting you, McCoy.”

  McCoy nodded, and they pulled away from the house and headed down the street. They followed each other all the way to the interstate, where McCoy turned south and Wolf turned north.

  Their taillights grew farther apart until they were both swallowed by the swirling depths of the night.

  The End

  Excerpt From The Blight: A Wolf Donovan Supernatural Thriller

  Chapter One

  The visions arrived with the coming of spring, just as the trees were beginning to sprout fresh buds and the first groups of migratory birds returned from their winter havens in the south. As always, they began as dreams, the details vivid but disjointed, the faces of people clear but lacking names and locations. Those facts would come later, when the dreams crept into the waking world to become visions which would intensify in both frequency and intensity, until they became too painful to be ignored. Not that Wolf would ignore them, in any event, but it would be useless to try.

  He’d been working at Bremen’s Garage for several months at that point, and he was loath to leave. He liked his job and the people he worked with; he liked the whole town, for that matter. Chester, Wyoming was little more than a bump in the road, but the people were good and life was simple and moved at a slow pace. There weren’t a lot of complications. That suited Wolf Donovan, who had seen his share of complications over the years, just fine.

  But such was his life. Sometimes it was easy to pack up and move on; sometimes it wasn’t. The end result, though, was always the same. He would leave. He would follow the visions to wherever they led him, no matter how long or hard the road might be.

  Because if he didn’t, someone would die.

  Wolf sat on the edge of the bed in his small apartment and rubbed his eyes. At this point, he knew almost nothing. He’d seen a woman, young and vibrant and beautiful, and also a small child, which he thought to be a boy. It had been hard to tell, because the images of the toddler had not been as clear as those of the woman. Had had seen a house as well—old and majestic, a structure with roots in the previous century. Something about the house had seemed wrong, but it was too early for Wolf to pick up on what that something might be.

  He rose and padded into the tiny closet-sized bathroom. In the flickering light of the overhead fluorescent bulb, Wolf studied his reflection in the small mirror over the yellowed porcelain sink. He looked like a homicidal lunatic. His long, black hair—which he usually kept pulled back into a tight ponytail—sat upon his head like a frazzled horse’s mane. His beard, equally black and having so far evaded the first strands of gray, needed trimmed. His eyes, blue like the depths of an icy pond, reflected an unfocused intensity—a lingering effect from the dream which would diminish somewhat over time.

  His gaze drifted down to the scars on his shoulders and chest. He referred to them as war wounds whenever someone asked, which they seldom did. Wolf knew that he did not come across as a warm and approachable person, and though he did nothing to foster that perception, it was fine by him. Close relationships were not possible due to his erratic lifestyle and nomadic nature, which were the requirements of his true line of work.

  As he looked at the scars, Wolf felt neither pride nor regret. They were simple byproducts of his work, nothing more. There were many more that he couldn’t see from his current vantage point; similar marks decorated his back and legs. Some had been made by ordinary weapons such as knives or broken bottles. Others had been created by claws or teeth. They had all bled the same, though, and they had all eventually healed. At least the ones on the outside had.

  His attention focused on a particular scar which marred his skin just above his heart. That discolored mark had not been made by anything otherworldly; rather, it was the lingering reminder of an event which had forever changed his life. The bullet that had pierced his chest should have ended his life on that rainy night six years ago. Wolf had, in fact, died on the operating table, but his death had been brief. Most people attributed Wolf’s miraculous resurrection to the uncanny skill of the surgeon on duty that night. But Wolf knew better.

  He leaned into the cramped stall shower and turned the hot water on. He sincerely hoped his next accommodations would offer amenities more suitable to a man his size. At six-three, Wolf was a man who needed a certain amount of space. Though not bulky, his frame was lean and muscular, and his movements were smooth and efficient. He was not the type of person given to waste, whether of movement or thought. When Wolf had a task before him, he concentrated on little else until the job was done.

  Steam from the hot water began to fill the small room. Wolf rummaged for a clean towel and washcloth, finally finding one of each in the cabinet space underneath the sink. As he stepped into the shower and adjusted the water temperature, Wolf’s thoughts returned to the dream. As always, the details remained vivid in his mind’s eye. Closing his eyes, he could see the woman—the curves of her body, the small lines at the corners of her mouth, the green tint of her eyes. She was young, maybe a few years younger than Wolf himself. He was pretty sure that the child he’d glimpsed had belonged to the woman, so she was a mother. Wolf absently wondered if the father was still in the picture.

  He lathered his body, relishing the hot water as it flowed over his skin. At twenty-eight, he was still immune to the aches and pains which followed age like a stray dog hoping for scraps. And while the day might come when Wolf would suffer from creaky joints and a stiff back, it was at least equally likely that he would never live to see middle age.

  He began to concentrate on the house. It had been an old farmhouse, probably built in the early nineteen hundreds. Maybe earlier. It was hard to tell from a single dream, but Wolf felt that the house was isolated. Thick groves of pines and hardwoods bordered the property on two sides, while the remaining flanks opened up into large fields. The fields were fallow; nothing grew in the dusty earth, and the sod had not been plowed anytime recently.

  He poured a handful of shampoo and began to work it into his hair and scalp. The house in the dream looked normal enough, but it felt wrong. And it wasn’t just the house, Wolf realized as he concentrated on the vision. The empty fields and woods also gave off an unsettling feeling. The whole area seemed to be tainted somehow, as if it had once been the site of some catastrophic environmental disaster. The trees and other plants, however, looked normal and healthy. Wolf suspected that the disaster in question would prove to be less of an environmental nature and more of a spiritual one.

  He finished shampooing and rinsed off. As much as he dreaded turning in his notice to Hank Bremen, there was no use putting it off. Now that the visions had started, they would become more frequent and intense with each passing day. The best thing he could do was to pack up
and hit the road.

  Wolf turned off the water, stepped out of the shower, and toweled off. He needed to service the Harley as soon as possible; he had no idea how far he might have to travel and he didn’t want to risk breaking down on the road. At the very least, he needed to replace the belts and change the oil. He’d also considered a new set of tires, but his funds were running low and he didn’t know when he might be able to work again. Besides, they were only half-worn. They could wait.

  He dressed in his usual combination of jeans, t-shirt, and work boots. He owned no dressier clothes, and he couldn’t remember the last time he’d worn tennis shoes. His boots were well broken in and comfortable, and they were steel-toed, which came in handy for kicking whatever happened to need kicking.

  It didn’t take long to pack. Besides a couple pairs of jeans and three of four shirts, he didn’t have much. Some underwear, socks. A small collection of knives. A bag of oddities he’d collected over the years. His dog tags from his stint in the military. And a single photo, encased in a cheap frame he’d picked up somewhere. The photo showed a young woman with long, brown hair. She was slim and pretty. She was not smiling in the photo; her expression was reflective and maybe a bit sad.

  He stopped by the landlord’s apartment, turned in his key, and collected the small security deposit he’d paid upon moving in. It wasn’t much, but coupled with the cash he had on hand, it would probably be enough to get him where he was going. Wherever that was. As usual, he planned to hit the open road. His gut, aided by the visions, would lead him to where he needed to be.

  Wolf rode to the garage and spoke to Hank, who was sorry to lose such a skilled mechanic. Wolf asked if he could use the garage for a few hours to service the Harley, and Hank readily agreed, even going as far as to offer to buy breakfast. Wolf thanked him and accepted. He didn’t know when his next meal would be.

  He finished up around noon and said goodbye to Hank. From the convenience store near the interstate, he purchased some bottled water and a few energy bars, and topped off the bike’s gas tank. He then took the ramp onto the interstate and headed east. Since Wyoming law required helmets only for those riders under the age of eighteen, he was free to let his hair fly in the wind. Some would consider it inane to ride without a helmet, but Wolf preferred it. He had already died once, and was not afraid of death. He was more concerned with living each day to its fullest.