Roaring Blood (Demon-Hearted Book 2)

by Ambrose Ibsen

  Joe pointed to a small building up ahead. “That looks like the place. You ready?”

  I pulled my gaze from the brothel and hiked up my pants to try and rid myself of the tightness that'd developed in my crotch. Gadreel was in the mood for some stress relief, but it wasn't the best time for that kind of thing. “Y-yeah,” I muttered. “We just walk in and announce ourselves?”

  Joe gulped. “I hope so. Kubo didn't really coach me on this part.”

  We began for the entrance of the little shop, whose sign read, in boxy letters, “Books”. Wow, this Germaine fellow was quite the businessman. A distinctive name for a bookshop; right to the point. I liked that. Joe ambled to the door and pushed it open, twitching nervously as a bell sounded.

  Before we could make it all the way in, though, something called us back into the street.

  “Hey,” came a voice, followed by a tug on my shoulder. Joe and I looked back to find a figure wrapped tightly in a brown cloak. The hood was drawn so that only the individual's yellow eyes were visible. A grayish hand, tipped in black claws rested on my shoulder with more firmness than I usually allowed a perfect stranger. I stiffened at the touch, sensing pure hostility right away. “Don't think I've seen you two around here before.” The voice was masculine, but carried with it a bit of hiss.

  My imagination filled in the blanks. This was a lizard person or some shit. I pulled away and shot Joe a quick glance. I wished he'd just go into the bookstore and handle the job we'd come for, but he didn't move, instead closing the shop's door and looking at the cloaked guy. “We don't want any trouble,” he said, his hand trending to the pocket where I knew him to keep his Zippo.

  “No trouble, no trouble,” came the reply from deep within the nest of brown fabric. “As long as you pay, that is. Human folk gotta pay to walk these streets.” The yellow eyes narrowed and I had a gay old time imagining the hideousness of the smile the thing was sporting. Thank God I couldn't see it. “Don't see pretty boys like you too often.” He sniffed the air. “Too clean, too neat. You, uh... with the Order?”

  This raised a couple of eyebrows in the vicinity. At the mere suggestion that Joe and I were agents with the Veiled Order, a couple of folks darted off. Still others fixed us with steely looks and seemed to be considering whether or not to murder us on the spot. I was getting the impression that our organization was not well-liked around these parts.

  I tittered, wrapping an arm gingerly around the cloaked monstrosity's shoulder. “The Veiled Order? Pfft, nah. Those guys? We hate those guys, right, Joe?” I looked back at my partner while fumbling around for my wallet. I picked a twenty out of my stash and slipped it into the creature's palm, shuddering when I touched its skin. It was craggy, like a lizard's. Reminded me of the time a teacher in elementary school had brought in their pet iguana. This thing's skin felt exactly the same.

  The cloaked thing took one look at the Jackson in its palm and then furrowed its unseen brow. “What is this?”

  I took a step back. “W-well, that's a whole twenty dollars, as a matter of fact. Redeemable anywhere in the United States of America. Dunno if you've ever been, but...” I licked my lips.

  “Lucy...” started Joe, taking a cautious step towards me. A few onlookers had begun to crowd in on us. I was too focused on the cloaked lizard-thing to get a good look at them, but the dark shapes in my periphery all spelled trouble. We were about to have a showdown in broad daylight.

  Suddenly, I had an idea. Reaching down deep, I poked the demon inside of me, letting him surface just long enough to make himself known to the assembly. I met the hostile gaze of the cloaked lizard man and sneered. “What's the trouble here, friend?”

  The creature suddenly doubled back, dropping the twenty on the ground.

  The thing was too chickenshit to tangle with a demon. Good to know. His voice drifted out in a small laugh and he motioned to his fellows, urging them away. “It seems I was mistaken. These men are aboveboard. Good day...”

  Wrangling Gadreel back into the pit of my stomach was a real treat, let me tell you. He seemed to think it was go-time, and if I wasn't going to let him run up a tab at the brothel then he wanted to loose some steam in a street fight. I strained my mental muscle and forced him back into the background, sighing. Then, I joined Joe at the entrance to the bookstore. “Crisis averted.”

  He grinned. “Barely.”

  Opening the door, the little bell sounded once again, heralding our entrance. I stepped inside and got a noseful of dust. Ancient paper and the smell of good tobacco filled the air in this place, which was lit by a combination of dust-flecked skylights and Moroccan globe-lamps. Allowing my eyes to adjust to the dimness, I found this joint looked nothing at all like any bookseller I'd ever been to. There were a bunch of desks scattered throughout the room, and a few studious-looking guys sat behind them, poring over volumes that looked ready to crumble to dust. The walls were covered in packed shelves, and deeper in, towards the back, stood an enormous man with a curled mustache. Dressed in a black suit, waistcoat and all, he gave us a little nod.

  It wasn't until we got up close that I realized just how tall the guy was. At least eight or nine feet. Shaq would have been dwarfed by this dude. He leaned down as we approached. “How may I help you, gentlemen?”

  Joe rifled through his pockets for the letter. “We need to speak to Mr. Germaine Fox about a very important matter on behalf of, uh...” He looked over his shoulder, eyeing the other customers who were, thankfully, too absorbed in their reading to care. “The Veiled Order.”

  The man pawed at his chin, his gorilla-sized hands rapping pensively at his jawbone. “I see. Please, this way. I expect this is a matter best discussed in private?”

  “Oh, yes,” replied Joe. “Very private.”

  We followed the giant through a door in the back. He had to stoop to get into the next room, and offered both of us a seat in front of a huge desk. The room wasn't anything like the storefront outside; for starters, it wasn't jam-packed with books or other crap. It was very neat, with the instruments on the desk spaced equidistantly and nothing featuring so much as a speck of dust. Apparently our host was the real OCD type.

  There was something else, too. Perched atop the desk, staring pensively at the three of us, was an enormous freaking spider.

  Confession time: I hate bugs. Hate them. Nothing ruins my day like seeing a spider or centipede dash across my carpet at home. This spider, though, was a cut above. Frankly, it belonged on the Discovery Channel, or Guinness. It was simply too large to be real; almost as big as a dinner plate, with eight long, furry legs and tiny, beady eyes that seemed almost emotive. I struggled to keep back a shrill cry and gripped the armrests of my chair. Joe was pretty uncomfortable too, by the look of it, and looked up at our host with a seasick smile. “S-so, uh, Mr. Fox,” he said to the giant man. “I have this letter which details our situation.”

  The giant man smiled, then held his belly in laughter. “Oh, I'm afraid you're mistaken. I'm not Mr. Fox. Germaine Fox, the scholar and demonologist, is here.” He pointed to the desk.

  He pointed at the goddamn spider.

  I scooted my chair back about a foot and nodded gravely. “Hilarious... You really fooled me for a minute there. Can we talk business now, please?” I looked to the big man imploringly.

  With a slight bow, he addressed the spider once more. “Let me know if you need anything, sir.”

  “I will,” came the spider's reply. “Thank you, Jessup.”

  I didn't know whether to laugh or cry, but I did know, right at that moment, that I'd probably be talking about this moment in therapy someday. The door to the room closed softly and the big man disappeared, leaving Joe and I with this spider.

  Sorry. This talking spider.

  “Hey there, fellas,” said the spider in what was possibly the most annoying Jersey accent I'd ever heard. “What brings yas out here today?”

  TWENTY-FOUR

  White-faced, I reached
over and took Joe's arm. “W-when does the joke stop? When will we be done with the lizard people and talking bugs?”

  One of the spider's long legs teased the corner of the desk, and a laugh drifted from its, uh, fangs. Mouth parts. Whatever. “Well, actually, bug ain't quite accurate, precious. I'm a spider, a rare one. An arachnid, if you wanna be technical. I'm gonna have to ask that you not come into my house and start throwing around whatever taxonomic bywords come to mind. In your world I think they have a name for that. Racism?” Germaine laughed again. “I'm just fuckin' with ya. What did the Veiled Order send you out here for?”

  Nope. I couldn't handle it. The world was hanging in the balance and Kubo had sent us on a mystical journey to commune with a talking tarantula?

  I wasn't ready to talk shop just yet, and stopped Joe from handing over the letter. “Hold on just a fucking second, now. We were sent here to talk to Germaine Fox. He's supposed to be, like, an expert on ancient weapons.”

  “And a noted demonologist,” added the spider.

  I furrowed my brow. “Yeah, but our boss never said shit about him being a tarantula.”

  “Whoa, whoa, whoa, that's where I'm gonna draw the line, kid.” The spider stood up, extending its hind legs and raising its bulk into the air in what I took to be a threatening stance. “Who you calling a tarantula, sucker? I'm a Brazilian Wandering Spider, scientific name Phoneutria, got that? There's a difference. How you gonna march in here with yer generalities and hate speech, eh? After all my community has had to put up with, after all the fighting my forebears did for civil spider rights?”

  “That... that isn't even a real thing,” I said, leaning back in my chair.

  Germaine burst into laughter and settled back down onto the desk. “Yeah, I'm just shittin' yah. But I really am Germaine Fox. That ain't no lie. The, uh, spider thing is kind of recent, I admit. See, I was fuckin' around with this artifact, this druid's staff, and I got in over my head. Accidentally turned myself into a spider and haven't been able to switch back for, oh... about a year now. No one's been able to help me out with it, either. Looks like I'm stuck this way.” He sighed. “You live and you learn. Just gotta take one day at a time. Know what I miss most, though? About bein' human, I mean. It ain't what you'd expect. I miss taking a piss. A proper leak. You boys know how a spider takes a piss? It's just not the same.”

  I really didn't like this guy. If the spider wasn't quick about telling us what we needed to know, I was going to take off my shoe and let him have it.

  Just kidding. I'd have Joe do it. I didn't want to get near the thing.

  “Right, well, our boss gave us this letter. Contains everything you need to know about the mission we're on. It's... a doozy,” said Joe, unfolding the slip of paper Kubo had given him. “If you have any questions, uh... just ask.” He set the letter down on the desk before the spider, and to my surprise-- or perhaps disgust is really the more accurate descriptor-- the spider stood up and peered down at it.

  I tried picturing what Germaine must've looked like as a human being. I took him as short, pudgy. Probably balding and greasy. Still, even the biggest sleazeball I could imagine was worlds more pleasant than... this thing. My journey into the world of the Beyond just kept getting weirder. I mean, a huge spider with a Jersey accent? Come on.

  Germaine finished reading the letter and then pushed at the paper with his forelegs, easing it across the desk towards Joe. “I understand why you've come to see me, boys. That's a real bitch, you weren't lyin'.” The creature's mouth parts twitched pensively for a time. “The Scythe of Thanatos just ain't the kind of weapon you mess around with. If the fella's got his hands on that it's pretty much game over. Imagine Hitler getting ahold of the A-bomb first and you'll have some idea of what I mean. That thing's the Holy Grail as far as a necromancer's concerned.” Turning to a small shelf full of handsome books, the spider took a running jump off of the desk and catapulted itself onto the uppermost shelf. “I think I got something here that'll tell us a little more about the scythe and what we can do to stop it. I don't remember if it was in the Carte de Umbra Lungi, or... nah, it must have been one of the other books...” He chortled. “Sorry, fellas. This is gonna take me a minute. Been a while since I've read up on that thing.”

  Joe and I looked at one another and shifted uncomfortably in our chairs. From the uppermost shelf, Germaine teased out a big, leather-bound tome and let it drop unceremoniously to the floor below with a loud thud. Then, jumping down onto the ground, he cracked the cover and started turning the pages with his tiny, spidery hands.

  After a brief silence, wherein he studied the book, Germaine suddenly scurried out from behind the desk and scrambled up onto my chair, pausing on my armrest.

  I didn't scream till the spider reached out and patted me on the back of the hand with its bristly appendage.

  “It's like I thought,” said Germaine while I curled up into the opposite side of the chair. “That weapon is pretty much unstoppable. Inflicts a dangerous blight when it cuts ya. The curse keeps the wound from healing. Amplifies a spellcaster's death magic to outrageous levels. The wielder of that thing is essentially a proxy for the lord of death himself.”

  I grit my teeth. We'd come all the way out here and met with this creepy fuck just so that he could tell us what we'd already guessed? “So, that's it? We're screwed, then?”

  The spider raised a hairy arm and jabbed it my way. “I said 'pretty much', didn't I? Doesn't mean there isn't an out. I was getting to that.”

  Joe leaned forward. “What is it?”

  “Know anything about St. Michael?” Germaine's question seemed directed at me, and was tinged with amusement.

  Ha-Ha. Good one. Ask the demon whether he knows anything about angels. “Can't say I do. Been a while since I've gone to Sunday school.” I tried to relax, but every time I did, Germaine moved like he was going to touch me. “What's that have to do anything?”

  “Well, it's got everything to do with this, you dummy. See, once upon a time, St. Michael the Archangel got into a fight with this guy you probably know real well. Goes by the name of Satan? Yeah. Well, St. Michael's in the heat of battle against Satan and the Grigori when suddenly his sword breaks. This is a powerful blade, forged in heaven by cherubs and all that shit. Real primo piece of weaponry, know what I'm sayin'? Right when the Archangel needed it most, it broke into pieces, and where do you think one of those pieces ended up?”

  Hell if I knew. I rolled my eyes. “Just get on with it.”

  “A piece of that sword,” continued Germaine, “fell to Earth. Back in biblical times a blacksmith came upon it and, after melting it down, incorporated it into a sword of his own. You know the stories about King Solomon, yeah? This sword was given as a gift to Solomon for his virtue. He was gonna use that very sword to cleave a baby in half in that old Biblical yarn. Anyway, it was passed on through the ages. Can only be wielded by someone pure of heart, but a weapon straight outta Heaven should make the wielder immune to the ravages of the Scythe of Thanatos.” If spiders could grin, then Germaine was smiling like an idiot. “Course, that means you're out of the running, my fair demon-boy. Ain't no way you'd be able to touch it.”

  That I couldn't wield a heavenly sword was definitely no surprise. What I wanted to know was how this guy knew about Gadreel. “How do you know I'm a demon?” I asked.

  “I'm a renowned demonologist, remember? Wouldn't be worth all of my accolades if I couldn't spot one in my own room, no?” He leaned forward a little, hairs on his abdomen standing on end. “Somethin' weird about you, though. You possessed? Nah, that ain't it.”

  “I've got, uh... a demon's heart in me,” I replied, patting my chest.

  “No shit!” Germaine chuckled. “A real-life Demon-Heart? Ain't that something. Didn't know the Veiled Order was doing that kind of exotic shit. You took them up on that demon heart even though it meant goin' to Hell, eh? Not sure I'd have made the decision, but I respect it. Lifting cars and summoning
lightning storms is hella cool, but I'm hoping for someplace a little less toasty when I kick the bucket.”

  Right, because I needed yet another reminder of that. I sighed. “What kind of credentials can you possibly have in demonology, anyway? Is there a course you can take, a curriculum that covers that?”

  “Oh, yeah. The Franklin County Community College down in Florida has an online program. Took just two years, as a matter of fact.” The spider rubbed its forelimbs together. “Any other questions or y'all ready to get the hell out of here?”

  I didn't need to be asked twice. I got up out of the chair and side-stepped my way to the door.

  And I guess Germaine decided to come with me.

  Leaping off of the armrest, the spider landed softly against my shoulder, scurrying forth and clutching at my neck with its searching hands. “Time's a-wasting, gentlemen,” he said so close to my ear that I could feel his fangs grazing my skin.

  I flipped out. Thrashing from side to side and trying to do anything I could to get Germaine off of me without using my hands, I loosed shriek after shriek. The big guy from earlier poked his head into the room, probably expecting to find a murder scene for all of my screaming.

  Joe stayed back, watching from afar while trying not to laugh.

  “Ah, quit your whining,” blurted the spider, never budging. I felt one of its eight legs caress the back of my neck. “Now, now, your skin back here looks all goose-pimply. What's the matter, kid? Don't like spiders?” His wheezing laugh filled my ears.

  “What the fuck are you doing?” I asked, my body itching all over.

  “Well, I'm coming with you. To help you find the Archangel Saber. Obviously.”