Dixie’s eyelids rose, bit by bit, as if tethered to a tiny hand crank. Candlelight flickered on the table in front of her. She knew this place, the kitchen of Adam’s house on Claremont. She sat in a wooden chair pushed against the table. She tried again to move, but her arms and legs were secured by restraints. A sharp ache pounded through her head with each heartbeat, burying itself deep in her neck. “You clobbered me.” Her words came out like a slurred whisper. “Why’d you hit me?”
“Ah, she’s alive.” A small chorus of cackles filled the room. “Somebody get Tina.”
Dixie turned her head, wincing as the pain followed her movement. She’d found herself in this very same condition not more than an hour ago; definitely not something she wanted to get used to. “What the hell happened? What are you doing to me?” A hand slid under her chin and lifted her head. She stared into familiar eyes.
“What were you doing out there in the dark?” The tone firm—an interrogator’s voice, hard and direct.
After a few moments, the speaker’s face came into focus. “Tina? What are you doing to me? You know me, let me go.”
“Of course we know you—Dixie Mulholland. What are you doing creeping around outside our house? Somebody’s killing us one by one, every night.” The hand under her chin squeezed tight. “Is it you?”
“What? No.”
“Then tell us what you were doing out there in the dark.”
Dixie closed her eyes and concentrated. The restraints binding her to the chair crumbled to dust. She brought her arms up and rubbed her wrists.
“I told you she was a Witch,” a voice called out as feet shuffled across the linoleum.
Dixie stood up. “I’m not a Witch. I’m a Daemon, and you’re all in danger.” Probably the wrong thing to say.
“Hit her again.”
“Cut off her head.”
“Burn her.”
A mad dash for the door followed, accompanied by blurred shadows prancing across the candlelit walls.
Dixie raised her hands. “Imobili.” The chaos came to a sudden halt. Only the candle flickered, projecting a false movement from the mannequins in the room. “You all know me,” Dixie said. “You know my aunt, Rosalyn. We brought you here. We cared for you. We would never, ever harm you. Never.”
She told them about the Sangre di Real and of the imminent battle soon to find its way to their doorstep. She explained how Aunt Rose died trying to protect them. As she spoke, she moved around the room, staring into the eyes of each immobilized being. The windows to their souls changed from anger to concern—some more quickly than others, but soon she knew they all understood the stakes. She tapped each one softly on the head and they stirred, reanimating, and stretching their limbs. “I don’t know how many are coming, and I don’t know when. But we’ve got to find a way to work together if we have any chance of survival.”
Tina nodded and plopped into a chair at the table. Her voice waned. “We have no weapons.”
The back door burst open hard and fast. Cutty, his scraggily red hair dancing wildly in the wind, stood at the entrance holding a katana sword. With a toothy grin, he said, “You do now.”
“Cutty!” Tina’s eyes brightened at once. She jumped up, rushing into his open arms.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Blast! He’d been granted command of just twelve True Bloods, far short of the thousands he’d hoped for. Not only that, strict orders given to exterminate only the wolfhounds at Claremont. The Armageddon Lucas Knight envisioned had been negotiated away by fools.
“They say the covenant is sealed,” Sebastian said. “There’s nothing you can do to change His mind.”
Knight scraped his fingernails across Sebastian’s face, burning the stagehand’s flesh in fine red lines, sending a putrid smell into the air. “Don’t ever tell me what I can or cannot do. Is that clear?”
Sebastian winced, covered his face with shaking hands, and nodded. “I’m sorry.”
“Are the True Bloods assembled on the stage?”
Again, Sebastian nodded.
“Tell me, my friend, do they have any idea of the agreement made? Do they know this is a simple revenge mission on Daddy’s behalf?”
“Sir, you can’t call him Daddy. He is—”
Knight spun around and advanced on Sebastian. “I can’t what?”
“Forgive me, sir. Please forgive me.” Sebastian bowed his head and inched toward the door. “I’m so sorry.”
Knight put a casual hand on Sebastian’s shoulder. “I swear you are the sorriest Daemon I have ever laid eyes on. Except for that bitch Gorgeous, of course.” He snickered. “She was a piece of work, that one—strutting around with that stupid grin planted on her face, and those ridiculous schemes of hers to destroy humanity. Ha! I found her repulsive, didn’t you?”
Sebastian nodded.
“What’s that? I said I found her repulsive, didn’t you?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Oh now, come, come. You’ve never been one of those ‘yes sir-no sir’ kind of Daemons; that’s what I like about you. I always thought you were made of tougher stuff.” Knight rubbed his hand over Sebastian’s face, and the scars evaporated. “There, good as new. You see? I’m not as vindictive as that old hag. Now, things might get pretty ugly tonight, and I want to know I can count on your support.”
“What…what does that mean, sir?”
Knight pursed his lips and strolled toward the closet. “The Sangre di Real have quite a history. We were the original Daemons, you know. True Bloods.”
Sebastian nodded. “Yes sir.”
“Humans brag about the freewill bestowed on them at creation. Daemons possess the very same freewill.” Lucas turned to Sebastian and pointed to the floor. “The Sangre di Real chose to follow Him. The others, Gorgeous, Rosalyn Chase, and their ilk, did not. And what did we get for having a spine, for having the courage to make a choice? We were locked behind the Gates of Hell forever. Well, forever ends today.”
“I don’t understand, sir.”
“What I’m talking about is a new chance, a fresh start. Command of twelve True Bloods with orders to eliminate a few dozen canine—a simple enough task. Then it’s back to prison for the lot of us.” Knight turned and paced the small dressing room. “No.” He stared at Sebastian. “No more prison.”
“But…forgive me, sir…I just don’t…I don’t think—”
“Spit it out. Just say what’s on your mind. Have a backbone, man.”
Sebastian pointed to the floor with a shaking finger. “As I said, the covenant is sealed. If you started a war with the humans, He might not—”
“Oh, fuck the humans. They’re nothing. I don’t want a war with the humans, and I don’t give a shit about a few dogs either. I want to rid the world of all the no good, half-assed, cowardly Daemons who refused to commit their souls to the ultimate battle. I think, deep down inside, He wants that, too. He always has.” Knight turned to the mirror and smiled. “I believe He’ll release all the True Bloods, should the need arise, don’t you?”
Sebastian said nothing as Knight admired his reflection.
“And it’s up to me to make certain that need arises.”
“I still don’t follow, sir. I don’t understand what you mean by—”
“You, my dear friend, are one hell of a magician’s stage manager. What I’m talking about is right in your wheelhouse, nothing you haven’t done before. You misdirect a thousand eyes every night during my show, don’t you? Of course, they’re merely human eyes, seeing only what they want, but they seek only the tricks, the gimmicks. They know magic isn’t real and they want to prove it, to catch me in a mistake, but they never have. And why? Because you, my dear Sebastian, have all the angles covered. Remember this, my friend, sometimes defeat is the surest path to victory.”
Sebastian’s frown soon gave way to a smile, a dawn of understanding. “If the True Bloods are defeated tonight, He’ll be forced to send more.”
Knight grinned. “As
I said, He may send them all.” With eyes closed, Knight sent his thoughts to Sebastian. Pick your team—just a handful—and tell them as little as possible. Come close, my friend, I have a gift for you.
Sebastian took two tentative steps forward. He closed his eyes as Knight placed both hands on his head.
“Sangre venomala converte. There,” Knight said with a wink, “the True Blood now runs through your veins—for a couple of hours, anyway. I’ll be upstairs stalling, I mean instructing, my warriors.” Knight reached out his hand to Sebastian. “Tonight we make history, my friend. Tonight, through defeat, we set a course for victory.”
****
Cutty and Tina huddled together against the counter near the kitchen sink, their arms wrapped around each other as they speak in whispers. Every so often, one or the other giggles, followed by a quick kiss.
I glance up at Dixie while she caresses my shoulder with a gentle touch. “Those two picked a fine time to fall in love.”
“So did we.”
Marco clears his throat. “We really should discuss strategy against these True Blood Daemons. They could be here any minute.”
The house is crowded with wolfhounds, both in human and canine form. Colonel Dayton decided the majority of survivors at Claremont should gather here at my old home. The rest are stationed farther down the hill as lookouts at thirty-yard intervals.
“You’re right, Marco,” Dixie says. She sticks two fingers in her mouth and lets out an ear-shattering whistle. All eyes turn to her. Bodies squeeze into the kitchen and the rest watch from the living room, the back door, and through open windows. “Everybody,” Dixie shouts, “this is Deputy Chief Marco Ramirez from Las Vegas Metro.” A low rumble, mixed with growls, barks, and howls greet his introduction. “Relax, he’s a friend.”
Marco stands up. “And this, for those of you who don’t already know, is Colonel Jon Dayton. He’s battle-tested and experienced in strategy. I’m sure he has valuable advice to share with all of us.”
Colonel Dayton stands up. “As the deputy chief said, most of you already know me. For those of you who don’t, let me just say, I wish we met under different circumstances. But, as the Yanks are fond of saying, it is what it is. Now then, let’s get started.”
The colonel takes charge. He makes sure everyone is teamed up, saying he wants no lone fighters wandering the woods. He turns to Charlie Nguyen. “I want each team to have a sword—that means more katanas than we currently have. Oh, and we need plenty of disposable lighters, one for each team. Can you handle that?”
“Of course,” Nguyen says, her chin raised. “It’ll take some time, but—”
“I’ll help you,” Dixie says. She rushes out the back door with Charlie Nguyen.
I glance through the window and watch as katana swords materialize, their curved, slender, single-edged blades gleaming in the moonlight.
“Now, pay attention,” Colonel Dayton shouts, “what we’re up against can’t be killed like a normal Daemon. They must be beheaded, disemboweled, set on fire, and their bones crushed into the dirt. In—that—order.”
“Chop, scoop, burn, stomp,” Cutty says. He says it louder, “Chop, scoop, burn, stomp.” Those in the kitchen repeat after him. He yells, “Chop, scoop, burn, stomp.” The chant is taken up by everyone inside, including me. I hear it outside in the backyard, wailing from the front of the house, and reverberating through the woods. The chorus grows louder, “Chop, scoop, burn, stomp.” One hundred voices strong.
The colonel holds up his hands and waits for silence. The intonation, both inside the house and around the grounds, fades into the night. “Good. Now, I’ve paired you up for a reason. I want one of you in canine form while the other is human. As a canine, you can see and smell the enemy approach. As a human, you can wield the katana to chop off heads, while your canine partner rips out the bowels. As a human, you can light the match. Once the fire burns out, both of you can stomp on the creature and mash the bones into the ground.”
My stomach gurgles, like I’ve eaten something bad. Bile swirls in my throat, and I feel like I’m going to vomit. Listening to Colonel Dayton speak about the mechanics of combat in such clinical terms doesn’t sit right with me. Although I appreciate his practical approach to fighting the True Bloods, I can’t help but glance around the room at all the innocent survivors about to go to battle. They never asked for this. They’re caught in the middle of a war between good and evil that centers on me. Me. I’m the one who killed the Devil’s son. I’m the one the Sangre di Real want to kill. The feeling in the pit of my gut is guilt; the bile is blame.
I stand up from the table, and Marco stares at me. “Where’re you going?”
“Outside for a little bit. I need some air.”
He nods and I leave out the backdoor, passing Charlie Nguyen and Dixie still manifesting our weapons of war.
“Where’re you off to?” Dixie says.
“To check on the lookouts.” Of course, it’s a lie, but the truth won’t come.
She nods, and I make my way across the street into the woods. I run halfway down the hill, past a couple of lookouts, until I find a clearing. The full moon illuminates the trees around me, leaving everything else draped in shadows. True Bloods surround us; I feel it in my bones. I hope so.
“Here I am!”
Birds, panicked by my voice, tear off into the night. When the sound of their wings fade away, a deathly silence fills the clearing.
“You want me—nobody else. I killed your son.”
A shadow scurries through the brush to my right. Another one dashes to the left. I can’t see clear forms, only rough shapes darting back and forth. They are here.
I shout at the top of my lungs, “Come and get me!”
A figure dressed in black jumps from the thicket, arms outstretched, hands reaching for my throat. As I duck—a natural reflex—his head pops off, hits the ground, and rolls a few yards away from his body in the opposite direction. His stomach splits open and his intestines shoot out of his body.
A bright orange fire blinds me for an instant. The man consumed by flames. In a few moments, the fire dies down and the chant buzzes through my head: chop, scoop, burn, stomp. Before I realize it, I’m trampling on the corpse, crushing its bones to the earth.
Another form rushes forward. The same macabre routine plays out finishing with a red flame. Pure adrenalin races through me and in no time, I’m stomping on the corpse, making sure the bones crack into tiny shards and mix with the dirt under my shoes.
Colorful fires spark to life in the distance as more True Bloods are consumed by fire. Shouts, mixed with eerie screeches and squeals, echo through the woods. I don’t have a clear line of sight through the trees, but I’m sure Daemons are dying. The air fills with the rancid smell of burning flesh.
I turn away from the clearing and sprint back toward the house on Claremont. Sweat and ash blur my vision as I race up the hill. The sound of death fades in the distance.
“Adam.” I run into the arms of Dixie. She’s panting, her expression filled with terror as she stares into my eyes. “Adam, what the hell happened?”
I try to answer, but my throat fills with smoke. She wraps her arms around me and I fall, dragging us both to the ground.
“What happened? Tell me.”
I’m shaking, unable to speak. Others rush up to us: Colonel Dayton, Marco Ramirez, and a few dozen wolfhounds. I cough, spitting a gob of phlegm on the ground. My breathing is raspy at best.
Marco reaches out his hand, grabs my arm, and brings me to my feet. His voice is quiet, his tone apprehensive. “Oh my God, Adam, what have you done?”
Words finally come. “What are you talking about?”
“The lookouts saw everything,” Colonel Dayton says. “They said you raced around the hill like a mad man, taking down True Bloods, crushing them, whilst we were busy making our plans for battle. They said you killed them all.”
Chapter Twenty-Five
The heat of the night is rel
entless, making the journey back up the hill tough going. The wind swirls above the tops of trees sending them into an unscripted dance. More and more wolfhounds join us as we continue the climb toward the house at the top of the hill. I imagine it as a sort of reverse avalanche, growing in strength the higher we go.
Word spreads among the pack about my exploits. I listen to them talk of the battles they think I fought, their voices growing louder, the stories more unbelievable. When we reach my old house, almost all the survivors of Claremont have gathered together, slapping my back and doing their best to introduce themselves. My status in their eyes has elevated. By the time we file in the front door, I’m a legend.
I know I have to tell everyone the truth, but I don’t know what that is. I did not kill even one Sangre di Real, let alone all of them. The look on their faces stops me from speaking—I can’t let them down, or is it myself I can’t disappoint? These poor souls have been used a pawns, beat down, and demoralized all their lives. I convince myself this is their night, in some warped sense of justification, and decide to let them share in the joy of victory.
“What’s wrong?” Dixie squeezes my hand when we enter the kitchen. “You don’t look like a man who saved every life on this hill.”
I smile, for her sake. “Just tired, I guess. I need to get some sleep.”
“Look around you. That’s not going to happen.”
Revelers stream into the kitchen. Tina and Cutty have the refrigerator door open and they take out everything—packages of meat, a variety of cheeses, fresh fruits, and bottles of juice and water. Marco attacks the pantry, pulling out boxes of Pop Tarts, crackers, and canned goods. A spontaneous feast is in the offing. Well-wishers shout over the din in the hopes they’ll be heard.
Soon the kitchen, living room, and hallways come to life with activity. Dozens stand outside, laughing and talking in booming voices. Others come up the hill from their houses carrying plates of food—hot dogs, potatoes, sandwiches and bottled water. Each and every person wears a broad smile.
“Don’t ask me where I got it,” Cutty says, a huge grin on his face, “but take it, you earned it.” He pushes a can of beer into my hand. “It’s the only one on this frickin’ hill, man!”
Sin City Daemon Page 19
