Roaring Blood (Demon-Hearted Book 2)

by Ambrose Ibsen

  I let out a savage cry.

  From above, a blistering column of lightning plummeted towards the ground, reaching straight for the necromancer and his followers. The entire graveyard was lit up for an instant, made bright as day. The air sparked and a deafening pop sounded. “That's what I'm talking about!” I shouted, my ears ringing. “Down comes the hammer!”

  A wave of fresh heat struck me as the lightning dissipated. I took a few steps towards the hill, finding the grass thoroughly scorched and several zombies twitching on the ground in various stages of dismemberment.

  But then my smile slipped right off of my lips. The hearty chuckle I'd been saving for my inevitable victory withered in my throat and died there.

  Apparently I'd miscalculated.

  Standing atop that hill with the Scythe of Thanatos raised over his head was Agamemnon. And he was looking right at me.

  I stopped dead in my tracks, not wanting to believe my eyes. “H-how?” I muttered. How could he possibly have survived that? No one had ever survived that attack. My gaze rose to the glistening scythe in his grip. He'd blocked it. Agamemnon had blocked my fucking lightning bolt.

  Gadreel and I, well, our relationship is a weird one. We don't really talk to one another. Not in the way you might expect. But at that moment, as the necromancer started down the hill towards me with his remaining zombies in tow, I thought I heard his thoughts manifest in a clear, unmistakable, “Son of a bitch.”

  THIRTEEN

  “That was quite the show,” growled the necromancer. “Against a lesser foe that would have been a decisive move. A pity, though, that you insist on underestimating me, demon.”

  I was forced into speech. “It's you who underestimated me. I'm still kicking. That little toy of yours can't kill me, Agamemnon. Nice try, though. Before I'm through here you'll be begging for your life.” I cracked my neck and loosened my shoulders. The fight was coming. There was nothing I could do to stop it. I knew better than to tense up, to give off weak body language. I wouldn't give him the pleasure of knowing just how freaked out I was.

  Agamemnon stopped about ten feet from me. His gaze penetrated me from the edge of the hood, and when he drew it back, his tattooed visage coming into full view, its yellow might pressed into me like a knife. His eyes really were yellow; it was no trick of the light. There was something inhuman about those eyes. They were the eyes of a born predator, of a different species. Was Agamemnon human? I wasn't so sure.

  The necromancer passed the scythe from hand to hand, a cruel smile playing across his pale lips. “Life is of no concern to me, demon. I am a soul steeped in death. Even if you could strike me down, I would welcome the end. Once, I was an acolyte of death. Now,” he said, gripping the scythe tightly and giving it a shake, “I am become death Himself.”

  There was no sense in trying; I couldn't hide the shiver that raced down my spine.

  Agamemnon continued. “And I certainly do not fear you or the mongrels you work for.”

  I watched as the horde of zombies, at least thirty-strong, came up behind him.

  Man, these were shitty odds.

  “Well then,” I said, steadying my voice and puffing out my chest, “I guess I'll have to teach you to fear me.” I squeezed my biceps, my forearms, to keep them from shaking.

  Agamemnon shook his head. “I'm not so sure.” With one hand he peeled off his cloak, revealing the plain back garb he wore beneath and the slabs of muscle he boasted for arms. With the scythe held in both hands, he arched his brow and donned a sinister smile.

  I guess that was my invitation to bring it on.

  The lightning thing wasn't going to work, so I decided to stick to brute force. I jumped at him like an animal after its quarry, offering up a brisk right jab that was deftly blocked. Agamemnon seemed able to read my moves, to know just what I planned on doing in advance, and shifted accordingly. My fist met the rough handle of the scythe, and as before an intense fatigue rattled through me. I pulled my hand away, gave my head a shake and tried to banish the numbness. I was mostly successful, except that by the time I regained my head, the necromancer was on the offensive.

  Agamemnon reared back and brought the scythe down on me like a hammer. He was intending to cleave me in two, to bury that cursed blade in the crown of my skull.

  I wasn't about to let him touch me with that thing. Not a second time.

  Rolling to the left, I bumped into the throng of waiting zombies. Surprisingly, they hadn't jumped into the fray while their master was engaged. Was Agamemnon holding them back so that he could take me on by himself? From a crouch I lashed out at him afresh, leaving the ground with a spring-like push of my legs and sailing through the air towards him. I squeezed my fist and aimed for his head, giving it everything I had.

  For my trouble, I took a blow to the gut. The necromancer was impossibly fast, and had not only evaded my blow by a hair's breadth, but had managed to reach up and catch me in the ribs with his knuckles before I could connect. I took a tumble, kissing the dirt. Before I had a chance to fully recover I launched into my next attack, wheeling around and trying to kick his legs out from underneath him.

  He jumped back, landing just out of my range.

  This guy had his shit together. He had no business being this good; as a spellcaster I'd have expected him to have to rely on magic to win his fights. Agamemnon, though, was an expert brawler, and with every failed attack on my part the realization that I was outclassed only sank in deeper. I wasn't used to this kind of competition. Even in my days as a plain old human being I'd rarely met an ass I couldn't kick. It probably sounds dumb, but with the demon's heart beating in my chest I'd started to consider myself unbeatable. Sure, a skilled spellcaster could still fuck me up if they knew what they were doing, but when it came to hand-to-hand combat, I really didn't think I could be beaten.

  Guess I'd been wrong.

  The necromancer kept on smiling. He was having a damn good time giving me the runaround. By the looks of it he hadn't even broken a sweat, had only been messing with me up to this point.

  I stood up, wiping the fresh sweat from my brow. “I see you're breathing pretty hard over there. Tell you what. I'm going to let you off easy this time,” I said, gasping for air. “You call this whole thing off and I won't embarrass you in front of your posse.”

  “A generous offer,” came Agamemnon's reply. “But I'm afraid I'll have to refuse.” His expression darkened and he raised the scythe towards the heavens, bellowing a single word. “Arise!”

  The ground beneath my feet trembled a little. The grass quivered and the soil began to part. From the soil erupted searching, bony hands. I felt my ankles bound, then my calves. Looking at my feet, I noticed there must have been at least ten zombies springing out of the dirt all about me, with still more from the previous throng now coming into the picture.

  Panicking, I dropped the tough guy talk and started pounding heads. You can probably guess how things turned out, though. Kubo had been right; he'd warned me that the zombies were weak by themselves, but that a swarm of them could mean trouble. Though I managed to destroy a couple, the mass of groaning zombies quickly overcame me. For every one of my limbs I had several of the undead holding me down. My wrists, ankles, waist; they clung to me from every angle with unbelievable strength.

  I couldn't break free.

  Agamemnon strolled towards me, holding the scythe close to his body and admiring the work his minions had done. “Where is your braggadocio now, demon?” His eyes narrowed. “What have you gotten yourself into? I wonder-- can you talk yourself out of this mess?”

  I had a zombie hanging around my neck, and another standing behind me, with his putrid, rotting arms wrapped around my midsection, which made it pretty difficult to speak. Still, Gadreel burst to the surface and spat out a sporting “Fuck you.”

  I felt the tip of the scythe against my breast. The moment it touched me, the fatigued wooziness washed over me once more and the grip of the
surrounding zombies felt all the more crushing. My captor brought his weapon to my chin, musing about how best to execute me. “Carving out that heart of yours would be most enjoyable, though such a death wouldn't cause you the suffering you deserve. Perhaps we could start higher up. An ear, first. Then your nose. Your tongue...”

  Desperate times call for desperate measures. I was walking a fine line between life and death here and had absolutely zero interest in becoming Agamemnon's newest recruit. If you'd asked me, plain old Lucian, I'd have told you Gadreel and I were sunk just then. That we'd reached into our bag of tricks and come up with nothing more than a fistful of lint and sticky pennies. The demon, though, had a stroke of genius.

  I spit in the necromancer's face. It wasn't easy to do, but Gadreel delivered a high-speed loogie that landed on Agamemnon's cheek.

  You know what happened from there.

  Agamemnon roared in pain as his flesh was quickly eaten away.

  Demonic acid spit, ladies and gentlemen. Don't leave home without it.

  While the necromancer clutched at his face and doubled over, I found my opening. The odds were stacked against me and I had little hope of breaking away from the zombies, but I had to try. I let Gadreel into the captain's chair and felt his power flooding my every corner. Nerve endings I didn't even know I had tingled with demonic energy as the ambient temperature suddenly dropped by ten degrees. The smell of rain waxed dominant and the skies directly overhead began to hiccough with the promise of a storm.

  The hill was lit up by a lightning strike. The second I'd launched within the span of minutes. All around me the walking dead were incinerated, their bodies rocked by the jolt of a million volts and their brittle shapes bursting into flame.

  I staggered down the hill, treading through mounds of smoldering ash with my hair standing on end. I couldn't really hear anything and my eyes were watery for the flash of light, so my vision was pretty shot, too. But I was alive.

  I didn't turn to survey the damage, to see whether the necromancer had been caught in the blast. I knew that bastard had made it. He'd survived my lightning bolt once; the second might've hit him, but I knew better than to think he'd been done in. I focused instead on finding my Corvette. It was sitting on the other side of the fence, beside the curb, where I'd left it. Hopping the iron fence, I landed on the sidewalk and dove into the car.

  The air reeked of fire and rain. If I didn't get out of there, and pronto, the spot was certain to be flooded with cops and firefighters.

  I put the pedal to the metal and took off for the highway. Within minutes I was on the entrance ramp, coasting around the bend and racing for HQ.

  I'd escaped with my life, had knocked a fair few zombies out of commission and dealt a decent blow to the mastermind behind all of this. But I hadn't been able to beat him. The knowledge that I'd been bested didn't sit well.

  Lucian Colt knows a thing or two about disappointment, about feeling down on himself. For Gadreel however, this was new territory. It isn't often that a fallen angel gets his ass kicked.

  I felt worse for him than I did for myself, honestly.

  FOURTEEN

  Kubo didn't care that my hair was all staticky, or that I looked like I'd just survived the Apocalypse. When I walked in that door and started through the lobby in search of him, he came up and socked me in the nose.

  “It's past midnight. Where the fuck have you been?” demanded the Chief, taking me by the neck and guiding me down the hall.

  I sniffed back a trail of blood and clutched at my face. “I overslept, OK? But on the way here I met Agamemnon and his horde. Got into a fight and managed to get some hits in. I think he made it out, though.”

  Kubo really loved kicking me when I was down. He jabbed me in the side with his elbow. “Damned idiot. You're lucky you aren't dead, trying to take him on yourself. This ain't a solo job, Lucy. You can't just expect to play the hero this time around. We have a plan in place to nullify this threat, but it isn't going to work the way you're thinking. You need to get yourself in line before you fuck things up for everybody. Got it?”

  “Y-yeah, Chief.”

  Kubo cleared his throat and paused outside of a conference room. From inside I could hear all kinds of voices. The place was packed. “We've brought on two experienced contractors for this job. They've worked for us in the past and are exceptional at what they do. They'll be working alongside you and Joe.” He threw open the door and waved me inside. “I want you to meet them.”

  As I'd guessed, the room was stuffed full of Veiled Order commandos. There were some other people there I didn't recognize, too. Dudes in expensive suits that were chatting up Amundsen. Joe was sitting on a stool in the far corner, sipping from a bottle of water and chatting with two others. A guy and girl.

  And the guy was wearing a sword on his back. A sword with a bone for a hilt.

  My eyes widened and I stormed across the room, leaving Kubo in the doorway. If the swordsman was here, then the girl with him must be--

  “Oh, hey Lucy. Remember Kanta from the party? She and her partner Percy here are joining up,” said Joe as he saw me marching over.

  “You... you!” Kanta turned around and looked at me, her perfectly-shaped eyebrow arching. “What in the hell are you doing here?”

  Hands on her hips, Kanta shrugged. “I should probably be asking you that.” Her hair was still done up in that perfect braid, and she wore a really beautiful sari made of a shiny, silky fabric. It was colored in blues and yellows, and featured a flower motif. It was also exceptionally tailored, hugging her tight curves and generous bust, and--

  I had to stop myself from ogling her. This was the bitch who'd strapped me to a chair and tried to perform an exorcism on me. She and her buddy here had attempted to kill me; they were permanently on my shit-list. Didn't matter how pretty she was, or how cool her friend's bone-sword might've looked. I had half a mind to kill them right then and there. “I work here, you jackass,” I shot back. “Give me one good reason why I shouldn't stomp your ass to death right here and now!”

  Joe put a hand on my shoulder and guided me away from the pair. The dude with the sword rubbed at his bearded cheek and grinned at me. It took all the restraint I had not to break his face. “Look, I get it. She turned you down and you're bitter about it. But that's no way to act towards our new team mates, Lucy,” said Joe.

  I grabbed the collar of Joe's jacket and gave him a violent shake. “She didn't turn me down, you idiot. She tried to perform a goddamned exorcism on me. She tried to kill me. Get it? I'm not just pouting because I didn't get lucky, Joe, I'm angry because she's a conniving bitch, who--”

  “Hey,” said Kanta, folding her arms. “I can hear you, you know.”

  “Well, good! Because I've got a lot more to say about this, and--” Amundsen came up from behind me and cut me off before I could lay into her further.

  “Lucian, we were worried about you,” he said, patting me on the arm. “I hope you didn't encounter any trouble on your way over tonight. We've already had our meeting, have laid out some plans, and thankfully you're just in time to take part. I see you've met Percival and Kanta here. They're experienced contractors who have done work for the Order in the past and I'm thrilled to have them onboard again. Percival here is an accomplished hunter, son of legendary werewolf hunter Malcolm Sterling. Kanta has trained for many years in India, learning the rites of exorcism, and--”

  “Oh, I know all about her,” I said, shooting her a dirty look. “I'm stoked. Can't wait to start working with them. Boy, when we get out into the field, just the three of us, there's really no telling what might happen...”

  Amundsen failed to pick up the hostility in my words and urged me to have a seat. “So, Lucian, this is how things are going to go.”

  ***

  Amundsen became grave as he explained everything I'd missed. It was damned hard for me to listen to him with those two assholes in close proximity, but I crossed my legs and took i
n what he had to tell me. “Frankly,” he began, “this ranks among the most serious threats the Veiled Order has ever faced.”

  The Veiled Order had been around since, well, forever. Hearing Amundsen describe the necromancer's plot in that way didn't exactly inspire confidence.

  He sat down next to me and went on. “We've received more reports... many more reports of missing bodies. Every cemetery in the city is being emptied and the bodies are disappearing. Agamemnon's army is growing. Thankfully, the general population doesn't seem to know what's going on. Except for a few, they haven't caught on. We've pulled some strings, had the city's graveyards closed citing some problem with the groundwater beneath them. But that won't last. When enough of the townspeople witness the undead, or if the city becomes a literal war zone as we fear it might, then the cat will be out of the bag. The Veiled Order has always prized itself on secrecy, and has shielded mankind from the Beyond for ages. This time we may not be able to cover things up neatly. So, the plan is to stop this war before it really starts.”

  “Sure, that makes sense. But how?” I gulped, recalling my most recent bout against the necromancer. Agamemnon was a force to be reckoned with. There wasn't anyone on the Order's roster who could handle him mano-a-mano. Sure as shit, those two asshole contractors wouldn't be able to take him on. It seemed to me that the only way to preemptively stop the war would have been to strike down Agamemnon before he somehow got ahold of that mythical weapon. Now that he had it in his possession, all bets were off.

  “Agamemnon is building an army of the living dead. Being a skilled necromancer is bad enough, but he now possesses a relic that multiplies his power. With this in mind, the leaders of the Veiled Order have proposed that a strike team be assembled and that its members be assigned two distinct goals. First, the team must take the scythe from the necromancer. Second, they must destroy him. If the necromancer dies, then all of the zombies he has raised will die with him. The trouble is, killing Agamemnon will be virtually impossible so long as he possesses the Scythe of Thanatos.