‘Pazuzu. Babylonian demon-god and father of the Pazuzim. We carry his mark.’ He lifted his wrist, exposing the little hook-and-squiggle birthmark we had in common.
I think my brain shorted out since I just stared at the old guy not quite believing what I’d just heard. Ancient gods? He had to be kidding me? Nah, nah, nah, there had to be another explanation. Had to be. Another part of my brain, the part that was still functioning, piped up and reminded me that I’d thought there was no such thing as vampires either.
The old guy chuckled. ‘You should see the look on your face!’
‘Making your day, am I?’
‘Best one I’ve had in months.’ His wide grin revealed nicotine-stained teeth against cracked lips.
Bastard! I stood and paced around his kitchen. As far as I was concerned, there was only one God. The idea of other gods and goddesses ... whatever ... had to have another explanation. Yeah, I believed in demons, but more as personifying the evil in mankind rather than actual living beings. But, the birthmark ... Nope, no way in hell was I going to believe that shit. It was more likely some canny witch doctor or priest, or whatever they were thousands of years ago, that went around killing vamps and spun some crap to convince everyone else. Passed off his birthmark as a sign as having been chosen by the gods ... passed it down his line. That definitely sounded more like it.
‘You honestly believe that shit ... some god called Pazuzu? Know what I think?’ I told him.
He pursed his lips and shrugged again. ‘Maybe, maybe not. But the maybe explains much more.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘One.’ He raised a finger. ‘We cannot be turned into fangheads. Doesn’t work on us, as I already told you. Two.’ He raised another finger. ‘We are drawn to them with the desire to kill. Why do you think I live here, in Avignon? Because it’s far enough away from the D’Antonvilles that those urges don’t dominate me, yet close enough to keep an eye on them.’
I wasn’t convinced. ‘Those things can be explained genetically.’
He waved a hand at me dismissively. ‘Have it your way. Believe whatever you want, but you cannot change what you are, and that mark on your wrist proves it.’
I slammed my palms on the table and leaned my face close to his. ‘All it proves is that my family were vamp hunters in the past, and it was passed down to us by some ancestor who hated them as much as I do. And if he also passed down a genetic trait that prevents us being changed into one of them, then even better. Nothing supernatural about that.’
He huffed, spun the book around and leafed to the front page before spinning it back to me. I followed where his finger pointed. I had no idea what I was looking at, but, whatever it was, it was the stuff of nightmares. Hand-drawn pictures showed a walled city filled with people, many lying dead. Others were crawling up the steps of a pyramid-like structure, hands in the air as if begging their gods for help. In a separate panel at the bottom of the page was one hell of an ugly female—I could tell by the massive boobs—with a the head of a lion, nasty claws holding snakes and the feet of a bird. The creature was kneeling on a donkey. It was hard to tell, but it looked like she—or it—was laughing while a bunch of smaller human figures were shown transitioning into monsters. Hands and feet into claws, long tails, bat-like wings and faces so misshapen that all semblance of humanity was lost. Gargoyles. That’s what those things looked like. Pity I couldn’t read the commentary. It had been written in an elaborate cursive hand, and all in French.
‘What the hell is this?’
‘The beginning of all things. This’— he pointed to the hideous female figure— ‘is the Babylonian goddess, Lamashtu. The first vampire. She created the lamiae, those creatures you see, after sending a plague on the people.’
‘What was her problem?’ I couldn’t believe I’d just said that. Gods and goddesses, my arse! It was probably lack of personal hygiene that had caused the plague, as with all other epidemics in the past. But then again, no plague had ever left its victims so physically deformed.
‘Not enough worshippers. Who knows.’ Those skinny shoulders rose and fell, again. ‘Anyway’ —he flicked to the next page— ‘the god, Pazuzu.’ The image his stubby finger pointed to was just as grotesque as the previous one, although it looked more humanoid but with a lion’s head, claws instead of hands and feet, and four wings, plus a very prominent penis—in case anyone was in doubt. ‘He chose ten of his priests and tasked them with destroying the lamiae and all their changelings. To help them do this, he blessed them with sensing the presence of the fangheads before seeing them, being immune to their venom and giving them each a sword made of daylight. Just being—’
‘Wait. What sword?’ There was no sword in the kit Davis had shown me. No way I would’ve missed something like that, plus the box was too small.
‘The one pictured here. Look.’ Yep, there was Pazuzu, larger-than-life handing ten bald guys each a sword. An enlarged version of it appeared at the bottom of the page. And, in case I still had any doubts about my bloody birthmark, there it was—hook-and-squiggle—engraved on the metal.
The old guy glanced at me, a wry grin on his craggy face.
‘Okay, fine.’ I raised my hands in mock surrender. ‘I’m a believer. Happy?’
His grin widened. ‘Good.’
The rest of the images on the opposite page showed the lamiae almost shying away from the Pazuzim, who approached with swords outstretched. The next scene showed monstrous heads cleaved clean from their bodies. And from the looks of the smaller fanged figures with them, those swords separated regular vampires’ heads from bodies, as well.
Nice. I couldn’t hold back a smile.
But one thing bothered me. ‘How is it possible ... if these things are the ancestors of all vampires, then why don’t they look like them?’
‘That, my friend, no one knows the answer to ... except maybe Lamashtu. Maybe she wanted only her children, the lamiae, to be in her image.’
‘Guess we should be thankful for small mercies.’
Junot laughed. ‘That we should.’
‘Those things don’t exist anymore, right?’ But just as I said it, somehow I knew I was wrong. The stone gargoyles I’d seen perched on the rooftops of cathedrals and other old buildings had to have been inspired by something. Which meant, they hadn’t all been hunted down.
Junot sobered. ‘Five of those monsters escaped our ancestors. But you know who got them? The cursed one—Marcus and his men. They trapped them in nets and flung each of them down deep holes in a few of their lairs.’
‘Why the hell didn’t they kill them?’
‘Couldn’t. Without the Pazuzim sword, they’re virtually unkillable, not even by their own.’
‘Where are these swords?’
‘Marcus’s son, Lucien, destroyed most of them.’ He flicked over to the near centre of the book. More pictures, but from a different hand, with their accompanying commentary. This one showed a bunch of vamps, fangs extended. Among them, faces I recognised—Lucien Lebrettan and some of his men—those I’d met in another time, another place, forever seared into my brain. My hands curled into fists. The old guy’s ancestor had captured their likenesses well. It showed them directing others to throw the swords into a furnace. The bodies of dead men lay at their feet. I assumed they were slain Pazuzim known to the artist, as he or she had drawn them with care, including the Pazuzim symbol on the inside of their wrists.
‘No fanghead can touch our swords or even be within a few metres of them. It weakens them. See here?’ His lip curled as he pointed to the scene I’d just noticed. ‘They’ve got to get their dirty donsangs to do it for them.’
The donsangs. I remembered Laura mentioning them—human partners to vamps and their own personal blood donors. It was gross, but the thought struck me: had Laura and I remained together and she transitioned into a vamp, would I have let her feed from me? And the answer that came back struck me even more—hell yes! But the old guy didn’t need to know that.
It wasn’t important. Something else was.
I wanted the sword.
‘Did my family ever possess one of these?’
‘Yes.’
That one simple word cut straight through me. My father had known. His father had known, and they had said nothing. Nothing! And where the hell had they hidden it? I knew every corner of my old family home. My great, great-grandad—John Ernest—had built the sprawling Victorian soon after arriving in Sydney from the old country, in 1890s. It’d been passed down from father to son. I moved out as soon as I graduated from the police academy. But mum and my sisters still lived there. The place had been renovated a few times: walls knocked down, staircases moved, floors replaced. But if Dad had known about it, he could’ve easily moved it.
But where?
Safety-deposit box, perhaps? Mum, my sisters and I had gone through all of Dad’s stuff after he’d died, sorting everything out, and there’d been no reference to anything like that. Where would I even begin to look? Then I remembered Granddad’s old shack up on Cradle Mountain in Tassie. That’s all we ever called it, The Shack. Everyone wondered at the time why he’d bought a piece of land off the mainland. It wasn’t like Tasmania was a stone’s throw from Sydney. You had to get on a plane to get there. Still, I loved the place. Our family holidayed there every summer. And if ever there was place to hide something, that was it. But the hell where? I’d pretty much explored that entire place when I was a kid. So, there still had to be ...
My pulse raced triple time. ‘I may know where it is.’
Junot’s eyes lit up at first then narrowed when I explained. ‘No. We would never hide it so far from our hand. The sword not only protects its bearer but his family. A fanghead cannot enter a house of a Pazuzim that contains a sword. It’s unheard of that one would place his sword away from those he was trying to protect. No, no, no.’ He vehemently shook his head. ‘It must be in your family house. You must find it.’ He stabbed a pointed finger in my direction.
I rubbed my hands down my face. Okay, fine. ‘What I don’t get is, if my great, great-grandad was forced to leave the UK because he disagreed with the peace pact and came here to hunt Lucien, why the sudden about-face?’
He lifted his hands and dropped them back on the table. ‘That you must discover.’
‘You reckon Lucien found out about him and threatened the family ... or something along those lines? If he hadn’t been afraid back in the old country what terrified him when he got to Australia, enough for him to hide the sword and keep the Pazuzim a secret?’
‘You are the policeman. Go find out.’
‘I’ll do that.’ Still, this whole thing had me stumped. Hopefully finding that sword would answer some of my questions. Which led to another question—did Mum know anything? Would Dad have kept this a secret from her?
Possibly.
But going home at this stage wasn’t possible. I still had a job to do, and that meant taking the next flight to Scotland. Which led to the real reason why I was here. I needed white-oak bullets and a gun that fired them. Getting permission to take mine would’ve raised too many eyebrows in the department.
‘Look, I can’t stay much longer. But I was hoping you could help me out with some white-oak bullets and gun. Couldn’t bring mine with me. Too much paperwork.’
He closed the book and rested his hands on it. ‘It will be useless to you now. I have heard that their princeps made some ... serum, I think it is, that makes them immune to white oak.’
Damn Munro! How the hell could I confront him—or any of his lot—without the protection of white oak? I may as well just bare them my throat. ‘Where did you hear this?’
‘I have my connections, and they are reliable. I may not be a hunter, but I keep my ears open.’
I had no doubt of that. ‘Shit!’
With a groan, the old guy heaved himself from his chair and came to where I sat. One bony hand clutched my shoulder. ‘Go home and find that sword, young man. Without it, you are helpless.’
Yeah, that’s exactly what I was, and it threw my plans out of whack. Following Laura and Munro to Scotland was now out of the question. I had to go back to Sydney. It could be weeks, even months, before I could wrangle permission to pursue this again.
I took a deep breath and mentally rearranged my next move. Because of the GPS tracker, at least I knew exactly where to get my secondment in Scotland. The paperwork for that alone could take up to six weeks, and in the meanwhile, Interpol would keep me updated while I hunted for that blasted sword. This was just a minor setback. If the old guy was right, it must be somewhere in our old family house, and this was the best time to search for it. The house was temporarily empty. Mum and my sister, Clare, and her family were away on a Pacific cruise.
I told Junot about the GPS tracker in Laura’s phone. Said they’d left the country for Scotland.
His eyes narrowed. ‘What part of Scotland?’
I showed him their present location: Stirling. But he already knew that. ‘Humph! Something’s going on.’
‘They’re running from the extradition warrant. That’s what’s going on.’
‘Mmmm. Maybe, maybe not. It might have nothing to do with you.’
‘Bullshit!’ It had everything to do with me. I stood and went for my coat. ‘I’m off to D’Antonville to serve the warrant. Since it’s daylight and the family’s not there, I should be safe.’ Before I left, I asked the question that had been nagging me. ‘Where’s your family sword? Still have it?’
His eyes narrowed. ‘Stirling, Stirling. I know that name.’ He scratched his head. ‘But ... it’s just ...’ He shrugged. ‘It’ll come to me later. As for my sword...’ He grabbed hold of his walking stick dangling from the back of his chair. I’d noticed before but hadn’t paid much attention to the unusual shape of the handle, a snarling lion’s head with double outstretched wings.
Pazuzu.
He flipped the head to reveal the hilt of sword within.
‘Nice.’ It may have been common a century or so ago, but nobody today would expect a walking cane to be concealing a lethal weapon.
‘And this is where it stays.’ I didn’t miss the warning gleam in his eyes as he slid the head cover back in place.
I couldn’t pretend it hadn’t crossed my mind—to take the sword from the old man and somehow smuggle it across to the UK. But the risk of getting caught wasn’t worth it. My job meant too much to me. ‘It’s all yours, mate.’
I slipped my coat over my arm, retrieved my watch from the sink and headed for the door.
‘Wait!’ Junot opened one of the kitchen drawers, grabbed a sheet of paper, a pen and scribbled something down then handed it to me. ‘You ring or text me if you find it. Send me a picture. And let me know what you will do.’
I nodded my thanks. ‘What if I have no other choice but to kill their leader, Munro? That’ll be breaking your peace pact, wouldn’t it?’
He pursed his lips and angled his head from side to side. ‘Mmmm ... the way I see it, that peace was made with Lucien, Lord of D’Antonville. He’s dead, and no one has bothered to renegotiate. The peace is over.’
Music to my ears.
I said my goodbyes and left. Downstairs, I flung my coat onto the backseat of the car. Perhaps it had been the coffee, but I didn’t feel the chill as I had earlier. My mood had improved too. It had been a good move to see the old man first. In the long run, it would probably save my life, seeing as the white-oak poison was now useless. But, on the other hand, I’d have a more deadly weapon if I could only locate my family’s Pazuzim sword.
No, not “if”. There were no ifs here. I was determined to find it and carry on the family tradition and clean, at least, my corner of the world of a fanghead infestation.
That was becoming my favourite word.
Smiling, I started the engine. My phone beeped. I fished it out and checked my messages. It was Dave. Talking was faster than texting. I had global roaming, and my budget for this trip would cover the call.
>
‘Hey, Dave.’
‘How was the flight?’
‘Bloody awful, but I’m here now. On my way to the house.’
‘Checked the tracker yet?’
‘They’re running. It shows they’re in Scotland.’
He let out a light chuckle. ‘You’re little trick paid off. Sure Munro’s with her?’
‘Oh yeah. If I were him, there’s no way I’d let her out of my sight, let alone pack her off to another country. He’s with her all right.’
‘Fine. I trust your judgement on this one, Matt. I’ll initiate the Blue Alert.’
‘Good. On my way to the D’Antonville house now. She may not be there, but the housekeeper should be. I’ll take their statement as proof the family’s gone. That’s all I need.’
‘What about your Interpol contact?’
‘Lazy bastard told me to send him the report.’
He sighed, and I could almost see him rubbing his forehead. ‘Nothing you can do about it.’
‘Look, as long as I get a signed statement from the housekeeper then all’s good and going to plan.’ I hung up and pocketed the phone.
D’Antonville five kilometres. Time to get the preliminaries over with, and after that I’d get the next plane home. There was a certain sword waiting for me to find.
Oddly enough, I wasn’t as disturbed by the sudden image of me standing by Munro’s decapitated body, a bloodied sword in my hand, as I should’ve been.
I wanted him alive, didn’t I? To expose him and his fanghead kind to the world?
That’s what the law enforcer in me wanted, but not the Pazuzim. He wanted total destruction of the enemy, and his arguments were convincing.
The dark angel in me eased the car into the traffic.
Chapter 23 - Drunvela
LAURA
It was just after sunset when our jet had landed in Edinburgh, and now we were accelerating down the M9 in a four-car convoy of Range Rovers. In France, it had been black limousines.
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