Authors: Seth Skorkowsky
Matt reached the catwalk and ran.
He shot down the clanging stairs two at a time.
How did they find me? No. That doesn’t matter now.
He’d get back to the States, change his name, change his face. Right now, he just needed to get away.
He glanced through the broken windows, but didn
’t see anyone outside. No helicopters circled above, with men sliding down ropes beneath them. Gravel and shards of broken bottles crunched under foot as he hurried out of the building and across the yard toward the fence. He’d ducked through the torn chain link and started toward his car when he saw movement through the woods ahead.
A gray vehicle rumbled up the gravel road.
Matt recognized it as the Range Rover from the motel. Through the tinted glass, he made out two figures inside. The vehicle pulled up and stopped in the forty feet remaining between Matt and his car.
Matt took a step back.
There was nowhere to run. His thoughts automatically moved to the machinegun slung under his long jacket.
The driver side door opened and an older man in
a dark suit with no tie stepped out, his hands lifted, palms outward. “Don’t worry, Mr. Hollis.” His accent sounded German. “We don’t mean you any harm.”
The passenger side door opened and the brown-haired man from the motel emerged, loosely holding a black and gold sword, its blade extending a hand-length before bowing forward in a long curve.
“I am Max Schmidt,” the German said. “This is Allan Havlock and his sword, Ibenus. We are with the Valducans and only wish to talk with you.”
Matt looked to the old man, then to his companion.
The machinegun still pressed in his mind as a viable option. His gaze then moved to the strange sword. He’d seen one like that in a museum once. Egyptian; likely ancient. It was pristine. He’d never seen another holy weapon before.
“
Are you familiar with the Valducans, Mr. Hollis?” Schmidt asked. “Did Clay Mercer tell you about us?”
Matt nodded.
“Demon hunters. Kind of like Templars or something.”
The German and his swordsman companion both gave pursed smiles, like they thought it was funny, but kind of offensive at the same time.
“Something like that,” Schmidt said. “Descended from a holy order. Is that all he told you?”
“
No.” Matt drew Dämoren out from under his jacket. The men’s eyes locked onto the weapon. The hammer clicked three times as he cocked it back. He held the gun down at his side, just like Allan with his Egyptian sword. “He said you were dangerous and to stay the hell away from you.”
The German nodded.
His gaze moved from Dämoren and back to Matt. “I can’t say I blame him for telling you that. Under the circumstances at the time, it was true. Did Clay tell you that he was a member?”
Matt
’s eyes narrowed. “Never said anything about that.”
“
Clay was a brother for over twenty years before our disagreement. He was among the best.”
“
What disagreement?”
Schmidt
‘s tall stature straightened a little higher. “He took in a boy, who not only was bitten by a fiend but showed multiple signs of demonic corruption.”
“
And you told him to kill me?”
“
Yes.”
“
And he refused, so you threw him out?”
The old man shook his head.
“He left of his own volition.”
Matt chewed his lip, studying the two men.
Their stone faces said nothing. “And now that Clay is gone, you still want me dead?”
“
No.”
“
Why not?”
“
Dämoren.” He nodded to the massive revolver. “It’s bonded to you.”
“
Bonded to me?”
“
Don’t pretend you don’t understand, Mr. Hollis,” Schmidt said with a knowing smile. “The bond with a holy weapon is unlike anything else. A love deeper, more selfless than anything.”
Even as the old German spoke, Matt knew what he meant.
Clay said he’d loved Dämoren more than his late wife, even more than himself. Matt’s infatuation with the weapon had started early. Even then, he’d known to keep that a secret from the old man as to not arouse jealousy. Only after Clay had died, and Matt inherited the widowed gun, did he fully understand the love of which Clay had spoken. “So what do the Valducan Knights want with me?” he asked, finally.
“
Only to talk. Recent events have made contacting you necessary. We’d hoped to catch you in Boulder, but you’d killed the lamia and left before we had arrived. Once we heard of the killings here, we came hoping to catch you. Mr. Havlock found and neutralized the demon two weeks ago. We’d begun to worry you weren’t coming.”
“
I was in Utah.” He pulled the red folder out from under his arm. “And if your group knows enough about me to fill this, why didn’t you just contact me instead of making me drive all the way up here?”
Schmidt
nodded and ran a finger over his neat moustache. “We have far more than that information about you, Mr. Hollis. Our duty is to protect the weapons.”
“
Then why the game?” Matt’s patience was running low. He’d driven a thousand miles and paid Cesar three grand to get over the border for nothing. Getting back to the States would cost the same, if not more, and he didn’t have that much. He’d have to liquidate antiques, maybe even sell some of Clay’s gold coins. Just the idea of that pissed him off even more.
“
Ah,” Schmidt said, as if somehow embarrassed. “Some of us wanted to see how you operated. How fast, and how quietly, before you were contacted.”
“
So you didn’t know? Wasn’t the fact I was in and out of Boulder before you even got your little game started, enough? If what you want is so important, shouldn’t that have been your test?”
The German sighed and brought his hands together as if about to start a prayer.
“I believe this meeting is starting very poorly, and I do apologize. Perhaps we can let emotions cool and go somewhere else to discuss this?”
“
Hell with you. Just tell me what you want and get it over with. Not unless you’re going to pay me back for how much your little test has cost me.”
“
Maybe a peace offering, then.” He slid a hand inside his suit jacket.
Matt raised Dämoren
, aiming at the German’s chest.
The old man gave an assuring smile.
“Relax, Mr. Hollis, this is an offering of trust.”
Matt kept the pistol locked on Schmidt, his gaze watching both he and the swordsman for any sign of attack.
“Slowly.”
Schmidt withdrew his hand,
careful and deliberate. Rolling his fingers upward, he held a small brown tube.
“
Where did you get that?” Matt asked, instantly recognizing the bronze shell.
“
Amsterdam,” he said, admiring the etched casing. “One of your predecessors lost it in 1938 before fleeing to America.” His cold blue eyes turned back to Matt, still aiming the revolver. “You may have it. All we ask in return is to talk.”
Matt regarded the old man and the priceless shell.
He lowered Dämoren’s hammer and holstered the revolver. “Then let’s talk.”
Matt gazed out of the window beside him, watching a logging truck drive past as the waitress set drinks onto the graffiti-coated table. Neon from the various beer signs covering the walls reflected up from the patches of lacquer still clinging to the worn tabletop.
Schmidt had suggested the roadside restaurant as a location to continue their talk.
“Public enough, so you won’t need to worry, but private enough to speak freely.”
Matt followed the
m for forty-five minutes before coming to the Moose House, a quaint little roadhouse that served as the area’s gas station, eatery, and late-night bar. The two men had evidently become regulars in the weeks they had been waiting. One of the waitresses seemed real happy to see Allan, whose accent was British, Matt guessed, once the man finally spoke. As Schmidt had predicted, Matt’s temper had cooled significantly during the drive. The return of the long-lost shell, now safely nestled in one of the cutouts in Dämoren’s case, had been the greatest contributor to that. The fact the old man had freely offered the treasure before the conversation did a lot to calm Matt’s nerves. Now that it was with him, he felt it only fair to hear their story.
“
What’s in the shaker?” Allan asked, breaking the silence.
“
Huh?” Taken aback by the sudden question, Matt looked to the salt and pepper shakers on the table.
“
The powder. I saw you sprinkling it on your motel doorstep last night.”
“
Ah.” Matt gave a half smile. “Magic powder.”
The Englishman
’s brow furrowed.
“
Kosher salt, garlic, silver shavings, white oak, bone dust, ash, tobacco...” He recalled the ingredient list he’d read on the side of the plastic jug a thousand times. “Sulfur, dried wolfsbane, soil from the shores of Galilee, marble from a saint’s tomb, mandrake... Little bit of everything, really.”
Allan nodded approvingly.
“So a sort of catch-all ward?”
“
Pretty much. Clay made the first batch back in the 80s. Been adding to it ever since. Once I find something new that works, it gets added to the mix.”
“
I like it,” Allan said with a grin.
Schmidt didn
’t seem as amused. “That does bring up a point.” He poured what looked like a cup of sugar into his coffee. “Whatever happened between us, Clay Mercer was a brother. How did he die?”
“
Cancer,” Matt answered, the smile melting from his face. “Stomach cancer.”
The German frowned.
“I’m sorry to hear that. We found the insurance claims for medications, but—”
“
Wait, you read his insurance claims?”
“
Never found any word of his death,” Schmidt continued as if Matt hadn’t spoken. “Just one day, he was gone. Where is he buried? The Valducans have...traditions to honor our fallen.”
Matt chewed his lip.
“Vacaville, near San Francisco. Unmarked grave.”
“
Why hide him if it was cancer?” the old man asked, his voice bordering on accusation.
“
He was bitten.” Matt snorted, shaking his head. “Vampire. One of those bald kind with the extra-long fingers. Clay dropped Dämoren in the fight. I nailed it with a forty-five. I had these silver hollow points. Killed the body.” He met Schmidt’s blue eyes. “By the time I got to him he was too far gone. He told me to take Dämoren, put a slug in him, burn him, and bury him at a crossroads. So I did.”
The German
’s gaze softened. “But you said cancer?”
“
If he hadn’t been sick,” Matt spat, his anger rising. “All doped up on that shit they gave him, that vamp wouldn’t have stood a chance. I’d seen him fight his way past four times what that thing could do. It was the cancer.”
Swallowing, Schmidt ran a finger along his thin moustache.
“I understand.” Sadness crept into his face. He drew a breath. “He was a good man.”
No one spoke for several long seconds.
Matt replayed that terrible night again and again through his mind.
“
Did you ever kill it?” Allan asked. “The vampire?”
Matt shook his head.
“Never saw it again. Coulda jumped to a body it marked, now living in Australia, or something. Maybe it went to England and you got it with Ibenus, there.” He motioned to the black flat case, like for a keyboard or other instrument, sitting beside Allan’s chair. Matt understood. Even after stripping off all his weapons to come into the roadhouse, he still kept Dämoren holstered under his jacket. A real hunter never leaves his weapon.
The waitress returned
; a welcome distraction for Matt. He ordered a sausage and egg platter. Even though it was after three o’clock, the Moose House was one of those places that served breakfast up until dinnertime. The German ordered a salad and a beer. He hadn’t even touched his sugar-drowned coffee.
“
Well, love,” Allan said, looking up from the paper menu. “I’ll have the roast beef sandwich, chips, and if it wouldn’t be a bother, horseradish sauce.” He smiled up at her.
“
No,” the waitress answered with a warm grin, jotting his order with a bit more care than the others. “No bother at all. That it for you?”
While attractive, with his dark hair and athletic build, Matt couldn
’t help but wonder how much of the Englishman’s appeal was in the accent.
Allan shook his head
and gave her a little smile. “I think I’ll have a beer. Same as my friend here.” He gestured to Schmidt beside him.
The dye-job blonde nodded, her gaze lingering on Allan for a brief moment before scooping up the menus.
“I’ll bring them right out.”
Schmidt waited for the girl to leave before speaking.
“Tell me, what did Clay say about the Valducans?”
“
Not much. You’re a group of demon-hunting knights. You find and keep track of all holy weapons. Your library on demon species and lore is massive.” Matt ran his tongue along the back of his teeth, his eyes meeting the two men’s. “And that you wanted me dead.”
Allan
’s eyes shied away at the last part. Schmidt gave no reaction at all.
The old man rubbed his narrow chin and sighed.
Clay had often done the same when teaching Matt math or introducing a new lesson.
“
Holy weapons,” Schmidt began, “have always existed. Whether it’s Perseus’s sword which killed the gorgon, Medusa, or Saint George’s lance, Ascalon, these weapons are legendary. During the Middle Ages, there were several of these artifacts known across Christendom.
“
When the Pope summoned thousands of men to the First Crusade, there were, of course, many whose souls had been marked by demons. So, as the crusaders invaded the Holy Lands, they brought with them vampires, werewolves, and other creatures that were virtually unknown to that region. Then, as soldiers returned home, they not only carried back the spoils of war, but ifrit and ghouls; monsters that, until that time, were alien to Europe. In response, the Order of Valducan was formed in 1142. It consisted of eight knights and their holy weapons. When the Pope announced the Second Crusade, the Valducans, whose ranks had grown to ten, answered his call.
“
The knights were not invaders, but came to protect the crusaders and rid Christian lands of these Saracen demons. However, once they arrived, they found that the Muslims had their own holy weapons.” Schmidt smiled to the returning waitress and took his glass of beer.
As the German returned his undrunk coffee to the blonde, desperately hovering around Allan, Matt found himself staring
at a deer’s head mounted to the wall. The taxidermist had somehow captured a quizzical expression on its face. Maybe it had looked that way the moment the animal had died. Maybe it, like Matt, was wondering where the German’s history lesson was headed, and why the Valducans had spent the past several weeks chasing him down so they could tell it to him. Had they wanted him dead, they could have done it at the motel, or hidden at the mine with a high-powered rifle, like the one that probably killed the puzzled deer there, and taken him down without Matt even knowing they had found him.
Schmidt took a long swallow
and set the glass down on the worn tabletop with a soft clack. “Now,” he continued. “The Valducan Knights learned of Muslim weapons that worked against demons the same as theirs. They captured Khirzoor, a holy scimitar. Because of its Muslim markings, they were ordered to destroy the blasphemous sword. But the knights couldn’t bring themselves to destroy it. They said that the power of the weapons came from God, and if God chose for the Saracens and Turks to have them, destroying them was a sin. They swore instead, to protect them.”
Matt swallowed his coffee.
“The Church must have loved that.”
Allan snorted.
If the old German was amused by the joke, he hid it behind another sip of beer. “Excommunication. They were
vitandus
; banished. They were proclaimed traitors to the Church and God, Muslim supporters, and thieves of the ten sacred weapons of Christ.”
“
So what did they do?”
“
Went into hiding,” the old man answered. “While not exactly pleased with the invaders, the Muslims did appreciate the Valducans for killing any and all demons. There were many ifrit in the Middle East back then, before they spread out across the world, and they called them Al Afareet Qatilla, the Ifrit Killers.”
Matt suppressed a grin at Schmidt
’s needless translation for his benefit.
“
As a measure of good faith, they returned Khirzoor to its people, and even helped in the training of its new owner, Faisal Ibn Sabbah, the first non-Christian inducted into the order. The Valducans stayed in the Holy Lands for the next twenty years before finally fleeing up the old Silk Road into India.”
“
Is that where you’re based now?” Matt asked. “India?”
Schmidt shook his head.
“No, as wars and political climates have changed during the centuries, we’ve had many locations. Our current base of operations is in France, although we do have properties in various parts of the world.”
The waitress came, carrying their food.
Matt eased his caution enough to order a beer as well. She brought a pitcher, filled his glass, then topped off Allan and Schmidt’s. As Matt reached for his drink, he felt an unexpected weight in his jacket. Moving his hand down, he felt the plastic bottle jutting out from his pocket. He’d tucked it there when fleeing the mine and forgotten about it. He noticed Schmidt watching him. Casually, Matt picked up his fork and began to eat.
“
I’ve enjoyed this little history lesson,” he said between mouthfuls. “But why are you here? I mean, what’s prompted this little truce?”
The old man drew a long breath, seeming to roll around Matt
’s question. He traced his moustache again. “The first duty of the Valducans has always been to protect the blessed weapons. Whether we are in control of them or not, we make sure that they are safe.”
Matt felt Schmidt
’s pale gaze where Dämoren hid beneath his leather jacket.
“In the last four months, eighteen holy weapons have disappeared. Fifteen of which we know have been destroyed.”
Matt froze, a bite of sausage still in his mouth.
“
At first, their losses seemed unrelated. A team of three hunters disappeared in Hungary. A Roman gladius was stolen from a museum in Naples. It wasn’t until the mauled corpse of a hunter was found in Florida, everything on him but his weapon, that we began to see the pattern.”
Matt gulped down his food.
“What pattern?”
“
The weapons were the target,” Allan answered. “The gladius, you see, was in a case beside a gilded helmet. The helm was untouched. The thieves knew what the sword was.”
“
But you said fifteen were destroyed?”
Schmidt nodded.
“Two months ago, the blessed weapons of the men lost in Hungary were found in an abandoned house in Plevin, Bulgaria, along with an Ottoman saber last seen forty years ago. The mutilated remains of five people were there as well. The weapons had been smashed. Some were used on their former owners. A similar scene was discovered a few weeks later in China and again in Mexico. At all of them.” He tapped the tabletop with a hard
thunk
. “The weapons were broken, then desecrated. Demonic glyphs and other symbols were found as well.”
“
How bad is this? I mean, how many holy weapons are there?”
The old man looked to Allan.
“Forty-six.”
“
That’s it?” Matt asked, his eyes wide. “That’s all that’s left?”
Allan sheepishly nodded.
“We think the Vatican might control at least four more, but they don’t...speak to us about that.”
“
They still can’t be mad about the Crusades?”