Blood of the Demon (The Silver Legacy Book 3)

by Alex Westmore

  New Orleans’s nooks had crannies and they seem to be stuffed with demons, all of whom appeared surprised to face a legacy hunter.

  They knew.

  They knew Peyton was out of the picture. That’s why they hit the streets in full force.

  Now they know I have stepped in to pinch-hit.

  And hit I did.

  I bloodied the streets of the French Quarter with demon guts until around two in the morning when I came upon one higher end demon rolling a drunk.

  Rolling a drunk? Really?

  Then I heard him talk.

  “Doves trova demon kunder?

  The poor guy being rolled had no idea what the demon had said. I thought I had a good idea, though, and realized it was not I who was translating, but my demon.

  “Loti uccidero subito se mi dici adesso.”

  The Hanta’s knowledge of languages has really come in handy. The demon was looking for a demon hunter so I gave him one.

  The ensuing fight took me a helluva lot longer to end, as the demon seemed to know how to avoid Fouet. He also had a weapon of his own...a short blade that bit into my arm once when I had him cornered.

  He was a nasty piece of work who actually snorted and growled, like he wasn’t at all sure how to act human.

  And this concerned me. Most demons can at least pass for human, but not this jackass. He was all demon––like a comic character who just stepped off the pages. What a fucking cliché.

  When I finally backed him into a corner, Fouet crackled and glowed as if excited about the prospect of killing this particular demon.

  I know my Hanta was.

  Rarely have I felt its...glee. Yes, glee is the only word to describe it. As if it was joyfully wringing its hands in anticipation of the kill.

  But this demon wasn’t going down easily. No siree. It fought, kicked, bit, and slashed its way passed me. I had to race after it for nearly thirteen blocks before it turned like a trapped animal, showing its teeth while hissing and snarling.

  Hissing and snarling?

  Well this was certainly new.

  “Tornate al diavolo, demonio.” It uttered the lines like a curse. “Stai per morire stanotte.”

  “Yeah, whatever, dickhead. No matter the language, you’re gonna end up road kill just like the others.

  And eventually he was, but not before he cut a good six-inch gash in my right arm. That hurt like hell.

  I managed to crack Fouet like a fucking rodeo pro, and she bit into him with such force, Fouet actually wrapped around his waist, hovering there a moment before I yanked it back.

  He blew fifteen feet in the air and said, “None pisbilit proteggare Peyton.”

  Before I continued on my way, I downloaded a translation app and spoke his words into it. He’d said: you cannot possibly protect Peyton.

  That line told me two things: one, that Peyton is alive, and two, they are here to finish the job.

  I would have interrogated him more if he’d lived long enough, but he didn’t.

  After killing him, I had to get patched up, so I headed over to Jeanette’s.

  Big mistake.

  I don’t know what it is about me and witches, but they seem sexually aggressive with me. I have to beat them off with a stick and it’s exhausting.

  Jeanette was no exception.

  I took my shirt off so she could sew up my gash. I’d lost a lot of blood, but I wasn’t in any danger of bleeding out. I just needed to get patched up. She was more than willing to oblige getting me out of my clothes, but at least she sewed me up and sent me on my way...of course not before she took a couple of stabs at getting me to bed. I have to hand it to her. She was very persuasive.

  But I didn’t come here to fuck.

  It was a bad idea for so many reasons and even though my Hanta would have willingly let Jeannette have her way, I had more sense than that.

  I left with my good graces intact.

  It’s now three o’clock in the morning and I am nowhere near ready to go to bed, but I can barely lift my arm over my head. No, I am done for the evening, and given the looks of his weapon, I am lucky he didn’t cut my arm off.

  I was tempted to call Brianna tonight to see how she is, but I am pretty sure I know the answer. Even if she wanted me, she’s in no position to make a move.

  So I called Lauren and asked her to do some digging on the Dybbuk demon as well as on the Italian Demon I’d killed.

  She concluded our conversation as she always did since this first started.

  “Stay safe Den, and remember, you’re no superhero. You’re just a girl with issues.

  A girl with issues?

  I had to laugh.

  That was just the tip of this iceberg.

  ***

  Denny finished reading the newspaper at Café Du Monde as she ate the last of her third beignet. “Damn those things are good.”

  Amazing how this tourist attraction was always busy.

  Always.

  There was never no line at this place...and for good reason. Nobody could make a beignet like Du Monde.

  The paper only reported a few crimes above the norm, which actually worried her more. If the demons weren’t here to create chaos and problems, then why were they here? Were they tossing the low renters in an effort to find Peyton?

  Just then, she got a text from Lauren about the Dybbuk. She had, as usual, uncovered what Denny needed to know.

  “No myth,” Denny muttered, reading the text.

  Den—not good. According to the rabbi who performs exorcisms in the Midwest, a Dybbuk can possess living and inanimate objects. While it prefers humans, it can possess animals—though the animal seldom lives through the possession.

  Dybbuk is Hebrew for “to stick to.” They don’t like to leave the host and if the exorcism isn’t done the right way, the host will probably die.

  Here’s the kicker, the Dybbuk is a malevolent spirit out to harm the host. That harm can be emotional, physical, financial, or even spiritual. It is often called into play by another, who directs it to the host to be possessed. That might mean your Dybbuk was summoned there by someone. I’ll keep looking. Stay safe. I worry about you.

  Denny reread the text.

  Called into play by another?

  Someone was calling these demons here for sure. Wynn was right. If they didn’t get a grip on this soon, New Orleans and its citizens were in for a world of hurt.

  Denny finished her coffee and was getting ready to pay when an elderly gentlemen stood behind the pony wall of the café, psssting at her.

  “Pssst.”

  One of the waitresses shooed at him. “Go on Louis. You know you can’t be here.”

  Denny rose. She recognized the man from last night’s activity in the ally. “Wait.”

  Both the waitress and Louis stopped.

  “I’d like to buy him a coffee and an order—”

  “Two.” He smiled a nearly toothless grin as he put up two grimy fingers.

  Denny grinned. “Two orders.” She waved him over. “Please, have a seat.”

  Louis took his beanie off and combed his fingers through his hair before entering the powder sugar coated café.

  “Thank you ma’am,” he said, bowing slightly, his hands holding his tattered beanie in front of him. “This is mighty kind of you.”

  “Call me Denny. I’m not old enough or mature enough to be a ma’am. Please have a seat, Louis.”

  Louis straightened his battered army jacked and filthy jeans before sitting down. “Thank you, ma’am.”

  Denny smiled at the waitress as she delivered a coffee and two more plates of beignets.

  “You okay from last night?”

  “Oh, yes, ma’am. I’d a been in the morgue if’n ya hadn’ come to hep me.”

  “I think you could have taken them.”

  Louis chuckled. “I know I’m a drunk mosta the time ma’am, but I knows what I seen last night.”

  Denny nodded. “And what was that?”

 
“You know. They ’ploded. Blew up. Boom. I seen that whip slice through them things.” He leaned forward. “I know what you are.” He stuffed an entire beignet into his mouth.

  Denny waited. The Hanta waited. She did not want to have to kill this old guy, but knew the Hanta would feel the need to protect their secret.

  Louis washed the beignet down with the chicory coffee. “I seen her do it once, too. Saved a couple a tourist only she had a long sword a some sort.” He shook his head sadly. “She a good one, that gal. Takes good care of the good folk in Louisiana.” He pronounced it Loos-ee-anna.

  Denny leaned forward, her interest piqued. “Yes, she does.”

  “I hear you lookin’ fer her.” He stuffed another beignet in his mouth and closed his eyes as he savored its warm and sugary taste. “You and them things all be lookin’ fer her.”

  “I am. I believe she is in trouble and I’ve come to help, but no one will help me find her.”

  Louis wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “You hepped me. I can hep you.

  Denny’s eyes left his face and scanned the café. The hackles on her neck tingled. They were being watched.

  “Ain’t no one but me, ma’am. I come to thank you for last night. Really. I wanna pay you back fer yer kindness. I can hep. I can take you there tonight.”

  Denny’s heart began racing. “Take me there now.”

  “That’d be suicide ma’am.” He pronounced it sooey-side. “She can see you comin’ in the day easier, and she’ll kill ya as to look at ya. No. Tonight. I meet you here at ten?”

  “Can’t you just give me the address?” Denny fought her impatience as well as the Hanta’s.

  He shook his head. “Ma’am, you show up there without a friendly and familiar face, and she gone blast you to bits. Trust me. I’m your ticket in.”

  “I heard she moves from place to place.”

  “Oh, she usually do but not lately. She bin hole up inna place for a few days now.” Louis wrapped the second plate of beignets in a napkin and then gulped down the hot coffee. “Ya want my advice, stop askin’ questions ’round town ma’am. You’s only gone be in trouble yerself.” Louis rose. “Ten o’clock. Don’t be late.”

  Denny nodded as she watched the old man disappear in the crowd around the café.

  Finally, she had the break she’d been looking for.

  Or did she?

  ***

  Denny walked through the Garden District with the phone pressed to her ear. The cicadas were buzzing and the humidity was close to ninety percent. “I know you’re worried, Ames, but I came here to help out and that’s what I’m going to do. What can you tell me about your friend, Mr. Devereaux?”

  Ames blew out a sigh loud enough for Denny to hear. “Interesting character, huh? The man knows his paranormal, that’s for sure.”

  “But he’s just a hunter. Why would you have sent me—”

  “He’s the premier demonologist in the country, Goldy. There’s not much he doesn’t know about demons. If you need answers about what you’re facing, Wynn is the man.”

  “He thinks there’s a Dybbuk involved.”

  “Oh crap.”

  “Yeah. There’s a lot of shit going down here, Ames. The Dybbuk is the least of which I have to worry about. Demons are flowing in here like water from a spigot, and they’re speaking Italian and some other weird language I am unfamiliar with.”

  “These are not your run-of-the-mill demons we’re talking about. If they are speaking Latin, then they are probably newbies who have somehow managed to find a way in. You need to find out where they’re coming from.”

  “I’m keeping my distance today. Lying low. I feel eyes on me, so I am going to stay in the shadows if I can.”

  “Well that’s the first smart thing I’ve heard you say. No sign of Peyton?”

  “I have a lead. Look, I don’t have a lot of time, can Devereaux assist with the Dybbuk or do I need to sideline him?”

  “Wynn Devereaux is a damn fine hunter Goldy. Sideline him at your peril. If it were me, I’d love the back up, but it’s your call.”

  Denny switched hands with the phone. “Good to know I can count on him if need be.”

  “I’m only going to say this once more Goldy, and then I’ll stop it. NOLA is not your responsibility. I know you want to help Peyton and all, but that’s not your job. If you insist on making it your job, then be sure you confide in the right people and get all the help you can.”

  “I hear you. I really do.”

  There was a slight pause before Ames said softly “If you do come face to face with a Dybbuk, you must use extreme caution. You can’t pull a Dybbuk demon free on your own.”

  “Not even with Saugen?”

  “Not even. The Dybbuk needs a host shell. You have to pull it out with Saugen and then, before Saugen sucks it completely out, you have to throw it into the next host, otherwise it will enter the weakest human in the area and you’ll have to start all over. Believe me, a Dybbuk can and will play that game all day until you tire or make a mistake and kill the host. That would be a murder charge if you got caught. It will take two of you to successfully extract the Dybbuk and give it a new home.”

  “What then?”

  “You kill its new host before it can get away. That is the only way you can destroy it—before it settles in the new host...and I am obviously speaking of an animal or object. I’ve heard it is nigh impossible to force a Dybbuk into an inanimate host, but that animals work better.”

  “So I send it to an animal and then kill it? How does that kill the demon?”

  “You have to kill the host before it has a chance to root. Immediately, otherwise, you’ll have to start over.”

  “Got it. Thank you.”

  “Goldy? Be careful. Remember what I said about confiding in the right people. Be smart.”

  “I’m not alone. I have witches, witches everywhere and not a broom to ride. As soon as I find Peyton, I’ll come home. Thanks for hooking me up with Mr. Devereaux. He’s an odd duck, but who isn’t, you know?”

  Denny and Ames said their goodbyes, and she finished her round of the Garden District before grabbing dinner and returning to her hotel, where she prepared for her 10:00 meeting with Louis.

  “Okay Louis...show me what you got.”

  ***

  The streets of New Orleans were always busy and rowdy; a party atmosphere ninety-nine percent of the time. Tourists walked down the streets of the French Quarter sipping Hurricanes and gnoshing on po’ boys while stopping to listen to whatever music tickled their fancy.

  Nobody seemed to notice the woman in the leather vest with her hands jammed in her pockets as she pretended to people watch. She was watching, all right, but not for people.

  Louis surprised her by being on time. He continued to surprise her by saying nothing when she approached him, and just walking away.

  Denny followed as he moved invisibly through the darkened streets toward the outskirts of the center of town. He never said a word, never slowed down, but just kept walking with his head down.

  He was scared. She could feel it as surely as if he had told her.

  Denny kept her hand inside her vest pocket on Epée’s cylinder.

  They walked another 13 blocks before he stopped in front of a rundown shotgun house that had been redesigned to incorporate two houses on other side of it.

  “Here?” She asked, a bit taken aback by the close proximity to town. She had expected the bayou or farther out in one of the hurricane-ridden neighborhoods that had yet to be helped by a government that so quickly forgot its poor.

  He nodded.

  Denny dug into her pocket and pulled out a hundred. “Thank you for this.”

  Louis looked at the money and then back up at Denny. “Save your money, ma’am, ’til after you see what you find in there. I don’t wanna get paid for sendin’ such a pretty gal to her death. You live, find me later.” He backed away. “Can you feel it?”

  She could.

 
; There was some sort of energy surrounding the house. It was subtle and she wondered how Louis was able to feel it, but it was there.

  Then she understood. It wasn’t just energy. It was magic.

  Witch magic.

  “Can I ask you one question?”

  “Sure, ma’am.”

  “You wear that military jacket. Were you? In the military?”

  Louis nodded. “Gulf War.” He chuckled. “Not that anyone remembers that one. Came home to nuthin’. Decided nuthin’ was better’n busted dreams.”

  “I’m so sorry, Louis.”

  He shrugged. “Ma’am, I live in the best city in the world. I got no complaints, ’cept right now, I gotsta go. I fought too hard to live. Ain’t gonna die at the hands of magic. Uh-uh. I wish ya the best.”

  “I’ll find you,” she said, meaning it.

  With that, he shuffled off into the eagerly awaiting shadows.

  Denny looked up and down the street. These houses were an easy in, easy out arrangement, as was the way with shotgun houses. She could see why Peyton had chosen this house: exit plans.

  But where was the magic coming from? Peyton never mentioned, not once, having a witch, but this was definitely witch energy.

  Denny approached the walkway to the front door, the energy collecting and building as she neared, almost as if in response to her being there.

  Closing her eyes, she woke the Hanta up. “Okay, dude, it’s show time.”

  While she respected witch energy, the Hanta did not, so she withdrew Epée and actually cleaved through the energy on her way to the front door.

  Three steps in, she stopped.

  Back door was a smarter option.

  Heading to the back was like walking against powerful winds, as the magic tried to close in around her.

  She was sure this energy had the power to stop a normal human, but Denny was anything but normal, and the more the energy pushed against her, the harder the Hanta pushed back.

  Like Denny, it didn’t like being dictated to.

  When she got to the back door, a motion sensor floodlight came on, illuminating the entire area around her.

  Without hesitating, Denny kicked the door in and promptly found herself flying back outside, where she landed on her back with a loud thud about ten feet away.