by SM Reine
Spellsmoke
A Fistful of Daggers
S M Reine
Copyright © 2018 by S M Reine
LM2-v1.0
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
About the Author
It is not the hearers of the law who are righteous before God, but the doers of the law who will be justified.
Romans 2:13, ESV Bible
The things I will do, what they are, yet I know not. But they will be the terrors of the earth. You don't know where you are, do you? You're in a prison of your own sins.
Michael Crichton, Westworld
Chapter 1
Meadowood Mall was under quarantine after a demon attack. The status sounded more dramatic than it looked from the outside; police had wrapped yellow tape around a few parking lot entrances, a cluster of bicycle mounted officers stood watch, and bored civilians walked past with barely a glance.
Only four deaths had been verified so far. It was enough for a quarantine, but not a very good one.
Lincoln Marshall had no trouble passing the tape. The police weren’t watching the food court doors a few hundred feet to the right of the bus terminal, so he strolled right in with Spencer on one side and a pump shotgun cradled in his opposite arm.
Spencer was a short, wide man with a patchy beard and smart eyes. He wore his pending bounty hunting license clipped to his jeans pocket, but he didn’t carry a gun. He didn’t need the added firepower. “Smells clear out here.”
“Everything looks fine to me too,” Lincoln said.
The environment was fine the way that anything was fine these days. Crossing the parking lot meant winding through a lot of cracks and sinkholes. There weren’t many cars, and the one illuminated sign flickered.
But Lincoln didn’t see any visible signs of the demon. If it wasn’t strong enough to ooze out the mall, then that meant everything was fine.
The tinkling of shattering glass echoed over the parking lot. Lincoln shook the sleeve off his fist, reached inside, and unlocked the door.
Spencer stuck his head in and sniffed. “Yep. It’s close.”
Lincoln checked over his shoulder to make sure they were still unobserved. Only one person watched them—a woman almost a foot shorter than Lincoln. She had thick hair turned coarse by desert sand blowing through it. Her cheekbones and nose were baked red-brown, and her forehead was creased with sun damage.
She carried a sword, which sometimes looked like it was made of steel and sometimes like it was made of obsidian, depending on which way Lincoln tilted his head. It most often looked like a flamberge: four feet long, with a minimal cross guard and a serpentine blade.
Inanna was a huntress. Debatably the best hunter of any kind that Lincoln had ever met. He wasn’t surprised she’d followed him here—she’d never miss a chance to go after a demon, especially if it meant she got to annoy Lincoln on the way.
Inanna hefted the flamberge. “I’m right behind you.”
“It’s not like I can stop you,” Lincoln muttered.
He entered. The food court’s stale, lightless air hung close, and his booted footsteps squeaked through the quietude. Lincoln knew that parts of the mall had reopened—they must have, in order for a demon to have reason to hunt there—but he couldn’t tell if the food court was in use. The pizza place was definitely closed, and it looked like the fish and chips shop hadn’t sold anything in a decade. Maybe the Chinese food place. It smelled like orange and pepper when Lincoln passed with Spencer gliding silently behind him.
This part of town was slower to rejuvenate than others. There wasn’t much demand for shopping after the apocalypse yet, and the demand wasn’t likely to get better unless someone could control these attacks.
“It’s too quiet.” Inanna walked in a half-crouch, her motions fluid, her eyes alert. “If our quarry isn’t making noise, then it’s likely it knows we’re coming, and it’s hiding.”
“I know,” Lincoln snapped. Inanna may have been a legendary huntress, but he’d practically grown up in a deer blind.
Spencer glanced over. “Did you say something?”
Lincoln shook his head. Shouldered the shotgun. “Still no signs.”
“I’ve got a scent,” Spencer said. They emerged from the food court to a wide hallway with skylights, and he followed them to the left.
Meadowood Mall was a series of interlocked crescents with dozens of shops, though few had begun selling again. Most rooms were empty aside from scattered garbage. Only the biggest corporations had returned, and essentials were more popular than luxury items. Build-A-Bear had been replaced by a gun store. The old jewelry shop had transformed into an REI. Sears now occupied two large retail spaces rather than one, and their tool department serviced the entire region.
At the moment, even the occupied stores had their shutters rolled down, tightening the quarantine. Staff had been sent home, pretending that home would be safer than the mall.
At least here, they knew where the demon was waiting.
Lincoln crouched behind a sunglasses stand to check his gun again. His shotgun was in working condition, but so old that he feared it would fail at the wrong moment, and he triple-checked it compulsively.
Spencer sank next to him. His nostrils flared as he sniffed the air. “Did you bring the moonstone?”
Lincoln tossed a small velvet bag to Spencer, who caught it with the reverence such an expensive trinket deserved. Lincoln watched over the counter for signs of attack as Spencer stripped off his shirt and pants, stashing them in a tactical bag. Keeping track of his belongings was not a luxury; even though local bounty hunters had formed a small alliance to share supplies, the supplies they shared were still few and far between. If Spencer died today—a likelihood their ilk faced on a daily basis—there would still be other men who needed his clothes. They couldn’t let anything get shredded.
Lincoln wasn’t keen on his only jacket getting stained, either. He got out of the splash zone, taking up position behind a Verizon stall instead.
He been working with Spencer and Javi long enough that he didn’t need to watch the shifter change shapes.
The sickening pop-crunches were enough for Lincoln to vividly recall the sight of human teeth replaced by long coyote canines. Those snaps were probably knees reversing. Spencer
’s shrieks sounded like the ones he made when fur spread over his flesh like wildfire. The grinding would be vertebrae splitting and extending into a whiplike tale.
Inanna wasn’t watching Spencer either. She never stopped moving silently between the stalls, ears tilted to the sky, gaze flicking over every corner.
“It must hear the Son of Bau’s transformation, so why no response?” Inanna asked.
Lincoln shot a look at her. “Son of Bau?”
“Skinwalker,” she said, impatient. “Shapeshifter. He is loud and we’re not attacked, so remain alert. The demon could be placing a trap.”
“I know,” he hissed.
“You did not know Son of Bau,” Inanna shot back. “Forgive me for educating a willful fool.”
“A willful…?” Lincoln clenched his teeth against further words. Inanna was old. Really old. There was about as much point in trying to argue with her as with his grand-aunts and uncles, who’d have argued their way into the grave over the pettiest things.
If Inanna wanted to think him a fool for not knowing millennia-old references, fine.
Spencer’s form swelled behind the other kiosk. His animal form was bigger than a mundane coyote’s; he’d have struggled to hide behind a small car, much less a mall jewelry stand. Even knowing that he wasn’t Spencer’s prey tonight, Lincoln’s heart jumped at the sight of his silhouette.
The enormous coyote head swiveled, golden eyes surveying Lincoln. Its body was scrawny and lean, unlike Spencer’s stocky form, but the eyes—those were definitely Spencer’s eyes, and he was asking Lincoln for guidance.
“Go ahead,” Lincoln whispered.
The shifter still made no sound as he slipped into the shadows deeper within the mall, nose tracing patterns on the ground.
Lincoln’s pocket buzzed, and he jumped. He kept forgetting he carried a cell phone. The Office of Preternatural Affairs had recently started licensing vigilantes to help control preternatural crime, and they sweetened the pot by offering technology, weapons, and extra rations to those who signed up. That meant luxuries like cell phones.
The only people with that number were part of Spencer and Javi’s vigilante collective. If they were calling him on a job it must be an emergency.
He fumbled for earbuds, cramming one into his ear and leaving the other dangling over his collar. “Hello?”
“Lincoln?” It was a tentative female voice. There were only men at the house the vigilantes shared.
“Who is this?” Lincoln asked. “How did you get this number?”
“It’s Ashley,” she said.
No wonder her voice sounded familiar. Ashley was Lincoln’s cousin. She was a cute girl with a great big mouth, sort of like Julia Roberts, and blond hair like Lincoln’s.
Unlike Lincoln, she used to be a witch. He hadn’t seen her since she left their hometown, Mortise, in order to study with a coven in Colorado.
That had been when the trouble started.
The White Ash Coven had discovered that Ashley’s magic was infernal in origin. It turned out that Lincoln’s great-great-whatever had been raped by an incubus, introducing infernal blood into the line, and Ashley had been a human with rare warlock magic.
Rare, and dangerous.
The White Ash Coven’s high priest had been inclined to kill her for it. Or worse—vivisect her soul to analyze the magic. James Faulkner was the kind of monster who’d kill a coven member if it meant learning the smallest tidbit about warlock magic.
Ashley had been screwed until Lincoln threw himself on the coven’s mercy to save her.
She hadn’t even thanked him for it.
Lincoln was tempted to hang up. Spencer had sniffed his way up the hall, chasing the scent of a demon, and Lincoln needed to follow. “What did you do this time? Is it the White Ash Coven again?”
“It’s not like that.” Ashley sounded like she was biting back tears.
Lincoln turned from the hallway and stepped into the doorway of the Disney store. “This better be important. I’m working. This is a work phone, in fact. How’d you get the number?”
“I found you through the Survivors’ Connection database. Your application to become a vigilante was registered there. That sent me to your house in Reno, and the house forwarded me to you. Isn’t it weird for you, being a vigilante? Outside the law?”
Not that weird. Lincoln’s nasty track record with law enforcement prevented him from getting a job as local police. Even Reno PD wasn’t desperate enough to take a guy whose file labeled him a corrupt cop.
The OPA would have taken him, but Lincoln knew the guys up top, and he didn’t want to deal with those assholes. Dealing with assholes like Spencer and Javi was bad enough.
Becoming a vigilante was as close as Lincoln could get to justice, and even that was temporary. He just needed to scrape together a few thousand dollars—enough for a plane ticket—and then he would be onto the next mission. Looking for the next answers.
“You didn’t call about my work,” Lincoln said.
“I didn’t. It’s about Uncle John.” Ashley drew in a shuddering breath. “He’s dying.”
Something clattered in the nearby Borders. Lincoln was on alert instantly, but he could only see shadows inside the store—impenetrably black shadows.
The hair stood on the back of his neck.
Spencer was following a scent on the other side of the mall, and the coyote wouldn’t be mistaken about that scent. His nose was too good.
But maybe there were two demons.
Lincoln’s mind spun with Ashley’s words as he crept nearer to Borders, keeping his shotgun aimed at the floor.
Dad is dying.
It shouldn’t have been possible. John Marshall was only in his sixties. When Lincoln had last seen him, he was still running Grove County’s lumber mill with no sign of slowing down.
He couldn’t be “dying,” not in a gradual way with plenty of warning. It just wouldn’t happen like that. Fall off a roof, maybe. Get hit by a car while doing roadside repairs, sure. Die rescuing a school bus full of children, probably.
Sickness… No way.
“Damn,” Lincoln said. Something scraped inside of the Borders again. It was rhythmic, conscious. Alive.
“They say that he only has a few days left,” Ashley said. “Susannah is here taking care of him.”
Susannah was Lincoln’s mom, divorced from Dad for fifteen years. She’d whored around on him. Gotten what she deserved. She and his Dad hadn’t been on speaking terms since, so it must have been serious to bring them back together.
“Do you need money?” Lincoln asked.
“We need you at home,” Ashley said. “Come back to Mortise.”
Inanna stalked to the other side of the Borders doorway. She stroked her fingertips over the glass display, tracing the curved shape of barnacles growing over it. There shouldn’t have been barnacles in Borders. There shouldn’t have been barnacles anywhere near Reno, where there hadn’t been oceans since dinosaurs walked the earth.
The demon was inside of Borders.
Lincoln’s father was dying in Mortise.
“I gotta run,” Lincoln said. “I’ll call you later.”
Ashley tried to speak again, but Lincoln hung up.
And just in time.
The face that flashed out of the bookstore should have been scarier than the memory of Ashley, or the idea that Lincoln’s father was wasting away in a hospital bed. This face had fangs and horns. Its skin was colorless, belonging to a demon born in places sunlight never touched. The eyes were inky black.
Lincoln would have preferred to fight a thousand of these rather than think about Ashley’s phone call.
“Shoot it,” Inanna commanded.
Lincoln didn’t pull the trigger. The demon was moving too fast—a shot at this range would be fatal.
Instead, he swung his elbow, twisted his body, and brought the shotgun’s butt to bear. The demon’s momentum brought its face against metal. Bones cracked. It cried out but ha
d too much momentum to stop.
The demon bowled Lincoln over. They rolled together past the Dippin’ Dots stall, and Inanna stepped easily out of the way, looking irritated. “Always go for the kill!” she barked.
“Shut up, bitch!” Lincoln growled.
The demon had won the advantage. It straddled him, immovable despite the fact it weighed nothing. Claws dug into his collarbone. It stung like fire, and oily black oozed out of the wounds.
His fear evaporated. Between the barnacles, the ooze, and the horns, this looked like a type of kelpie. Not a demon at all, but easy to mix up.
And easy to kill.
Lincoln punched it where the gills would be, hiding under its shirt near the rib cage. It gasped with pain. Flecks of black splattered from its mouth. He punched again, this time with the rigid blade of his hand, and he slammed it straight through the flaps into its body. He felt brittle bone.
Something snapped when he twisted, and the kelpie was easy to fling away after that.
“That good enough for you?” Lincoln snarled at Inanna.
She gave an unimpressed grunt. “Finish it.”
“The bounty’s only good if it’s alive.” He stood over the squirming creature. It looked so pathetic now.
Inanna’s lip curled, but she was looking at Lincoln in pity, not the kelpie. “The glory of the hunt is in death!”
“Mortals have to worry about the glory of economics.” Lincoln yanked back on its horns and slammed his heel into its skull.
One shot. The horns severed. The kelpie collapsed.
