Hounacier (Valducan Book 2) (18 page)

Gary's body instantly swelled as Hounacier's arc hit him.

"Ohma sarri ayi ah!"

His face lengthened, fangs filling the growing jaws.

"Oonu karri na!"

Thick, black hair burst from his skin, ribs shifting beneath it.

"Ohga narrifischtoo!"

Gary's pulsing legs contorted and changed, and his hands stretched into long-fingered claws.

"Tikki ahsa ah!"

The werewolf roared and yanked against the chain at its neck. The other prisoners screamed as the beast thrashed beside them.

"Now!" Malcolm shouted.

The people holding the ropes released all but the demon's. They fumbled to help Sadie, who was sliding forward as the beast fought its leash. Their ropes slack, Shane and Leigh Ann rolled, scrambling away from the thrashing monster. Shane stumbled on his tattered pants, no more than a skirt of denim ribbons. The werewolf slashed his leg. His left calf peeled from the bone. Screaming, he fell onto Errol's broken form.

Malcolm lurched forward, Hounacier up and warding palm ready. Before he reached them, Issach, standing on that side of the ring, yanked the shroud from the ghoul mask, and the werewolf recoiled away. Shane dragged himself out of the beast's reach before collapsing face down in the blood-soaked earth.

The team holding the werewolf's rope heaved, yanking its head back to the ground. Malcolm noticed Atabei standing a few feet behind it, lips moving. He hadn't heard her over the screams and snarls. Face calm and hands outstretched, she recited a low chant.

"Mayas karri notem."

Malcolm strained to hear her. The flowing words sounded like the First Tongue.

"Holloo mreshti. Mayas karri notem. Ohma ahsa ah rae." She stepped closer, her voice rising.

Malcolm's chest tightened as she drew near it. If the rope didn't hold, he wouldn't be able to save her. Issach and Peewee stood at the edges, eyes transfixed, masks ready.

"Holloo mreshti. Mayas karri notem. Ohma ahsa ah rae." Atabei's right hand rose above her head as she stepped just outside the monster's reach.

Mouthing the words as she spoke them, Malcolm watched in awe as Atabei lunged like a striking viper and touched the demon's head with the flat of her palm. The werewolf froze as if paralyzed.

Atabei continued her chant, the words flowing in steady rhythm. "Holloo mreshti. Mayas karri notem. Ohma ahsa ah rae."

Glowing red smoke, like liquid fire, wormed from the beast's nose and mouth and streamed up toward Atabei's upturned hand. Its bestial features deflated, fur and claws retracting. The burning smoke poured from its eyes and shortening ears, gathering into a twisting ball hovering just above her fingertips. More strands peeled from Shane's unconscious form and Leigh Ann, now hunkered behind one of the containers, adding to the pulsing light.

Malcolm stood mesmerized as dozens of other tendrils stretched out from the ball, as every soul the demon had ever marked was released. The crimson fire rolled and seethed, over two feet across. Gary lay on the ground, naked, his shredded clothed laying around him. He stared up at the glowing, smoke-like ball, eyes wide.

Atabei nodded, and the team holding Gary's rope released it.

"Go," she uttered quietly, her face taut in concentration.

The man scooted away and hurried off, the still-attached rope trailing behind him.

Quentin stepped forward and set the platter and mask on the ground before Atabei. Hounacier relaxed in his grip as Malcolm came up beside him, his mouth open in awe. How had she learned this?

She met his eye. "It's time."

Malcolm licked his lips. His eyes transfixed on the swirling demon fire, he hadn't noticed Quentin come behind him until the huge fist slammed into the side of his skull.

He stumbled, head swimming. Another fist hit Malcolm's kidney, and Hounacier fell from his hand. He tried to reach for her, but the big man was on him, his thick arms wrapping up under Malcolm's and around to the back of his head, pinning him in a half nelson. Quentin yanked him back, away from the mask, away from Hounacier.

"What the fuck?" Malcolm screamed.

Atabei's lips curled into an evil sneer. "This is for my husband, Hercule."

"What?" He pulled against Quentin's hold, his busted ribs screaming in pain, but couldn't move. "Who?"

She stepped closer, the swirling fire still aloft. "You killed him."

Malcolm's anger turned to terror as her slender fingers reached toward him. He tried pushing himself back but couldn't. "I don't—"

Her fingertip touched his skin, and the crimson sphere surged down her arm and hit Malcolm like a wave. Quentin threw him down, and Malcolm collapsed as the icy cold flames surged into his eyes and mouth, choking and blinding him with furious power. It flooded though his veins, filling them with hopeless dread. He tried to scream, but more of the phantasmal fire poured inside him.

"You do not deserve Hounacier!" Atabei screamed. "Murderer!"

Malcolm tried reaching back for the sawed-off at his back, but his muscles wouldn't move right. His numbing fingers found the leather holder. Empty!

He rolled himself over to see Quentin above him. The big man grinned, eyes cruel but tinged with fear, the Remington in his hand.

A brilliant, unfathomable light of alien memories exploded behind Malcolm's eyes, and the demon erupted, roaring though him. It was too late.

Searing pain burned his left palm and right wrist as the warding eye and scarab tattoos boiled and steamed from skin, crackling and hissing. Malcolm screamed.

Bones crunched and popped. His skin painfully stretched near the ripping point. He thrashed and spasmed, trying to fight it, trying to hold it back, but couldn't.

"He didn't have to die," Atabei said.

Malcolm twisted and saw her moving toward Hounacier, lying on the dusty ground near the ring's edge. The witch intended to kill him with her.
No you don't!

Gritting teeth that shifted and moved inside his mouth, Malcolm swept his leg at Quentin's feet. It whipped with more force or power than he could have imagined. The big man fell, the sawed-off roaring with a deafening crack and flash. Peewee, who stood with the demon mask not far from Hounacier, leaped back and ducked as the shot flew over his head. The black mask fell from his fingers.

Forcing every ounce of will he had left, Malcolm scrambled, his body stiff and fighting him. His right leg and arm wouldn't move, but still he crawled.

The demon was inside him.

Hounacier could kill it.

Atabei stumbled, backing away as he squirmed and clambered toward her.

Malcolm clawed Hounacier's bone handle with his now-fleshless palm and pulled her toward him. Unable to thrust her back into himself, he rose onto his knee, her handle on the ground and blade to his stomach. Darkness swirled at the edges of his vision, closing in. With his last act of defiance, Malcolm dropped his weight onto the blade for their final embrace.

I

A salty breeze caresses Gulmet's face, rustling his fur. He smells the goats over the hill ahead, their blood and meat and filthy pen. The mortals' stink also fouls the wind. His mouth moistens at the thought of their screams and flesh. Above, a brilliant white crescent, framed in countless, colored stars, casts a brilliant glow over the rocky landscape.

Rajik moves silently beside him. She always was quieter than Gulmet. He looks to her. Moonlight flickers across her golden-brown fur. A female body always suited Rajik best. It is only fitting, after so many millennia, that she be the one to finally bear the children of their union. With the blood moon only weeks behind them, Gulmet can already sense the six new souls forming within her. It will be five more moons before next lunar eclipse heralds their birth. Five moons that Rajik must maintain her wolfen form lest the pups die. Five moons until the merging of their spirits becomes a new generation. All they must do now is wait.

They stop at the hill's crest. Below, beyond olive and cypress trees, smoke rises from a tiny, flat-roofed cottage. The valley is fertile, sown with the deaths of six thousand soldiers. Their blood and pain shimmers in every plant that now grows on the long-forgotten battlefield. It is here that Gulmet has chosen for her. Waves lap the shores beyond the building where a small craft rests on a beach. Rajik loves the water.

She nuzzles him, and his flesh tingles at her touch. "It's perfect."

Pleased, Gulmet says, "Everything you desire, I shall provide."

Rajik nuzzles him again. "As I for you." Desire glints in her eyes, though not for him. She desires the hunt. He shall give it to her. New blood shall cleanse their home.

Keeping to the shadows, they descend the hill. Slow. Quiet. Their caution is unnecessary. Mortals could never escape them. But the hunt is a ritual.

A male is visible through the cottage window. Slender, his black beard thick and curly. A child laughs behind him.

They move closer. Gulmet catches the scent of the woman and girl inside, but then the wind slows and shifts.

The goats shuffle uncomfortably, smelling their deaths. They cry and bleat, gathering in the far corner of their lashed cage. They are the first to know their fate but will be the last to die. The thought of it brings more water to Gulmet's tongue. Yes. The humans die first. All but one.

The bearded man yells out the window. But the goats continue to panic.

Gulmet crouches beneath the shadow of a tree. Rajik circles around to the far side.

The man yells again then retreats inside. A moment later, he emerges from the door, a flintlock in his hands. Eyes squinting, he scans the darkness. Gulmet's open mouth curls into a smile as the mortal's gaze passes over him. To the side, he sees Rajik charge from the shadows. She crosses the open ground and springs through the open window.

A pot shatters. A girl screams.

The man whirls around. Eyes wide in terror, he raises the gun.

Leaves rustle as Gulmet charges.

The man turns. In three bounds, Gulmet closes the distance. The gun fires as he springs, its leaden ball passing harmlessly though his ribs. His forepaws strike the man's chest, bringing him to the ground. The man screams and smashes the barrel against him, but Gulmet only bares his teeth and continues pressing the human down.

Inside, the child wails. Her screams are not enough to drown the sounds of her mother's crunching bones and tearing flesh. A string of saliva drips from Gulmet's fangs onto the man's cheek. He waits until his prey hears his daughter die, then Gulmet snaps down onto the man's shoulder, savoring the blood and terror. They sweeten the taste of the mortal's soul. Gulmet holds the bite for only a moment, his teeth scratching the bones, then he pours himself into this new host.

Chapter Thirteen

Malcolm woke to the twitter of birds. He was fetally curled in the shade of a large tree. Disoriented, he swatted a mosquito on his arm. Twigs crunched and poked his naked skin as he pushed himself up to a sitting position. A heavy weight shifted in his stomach at the movement, reminiscent of the over-f feeling after a holiday meal.

Squinting in the morning light, he looked around. Woods. No…bayou.

Where am I?
He licked his lips, tasting blood. Malcolm touched them, brushing away several dried flakes, now melting against his sweaty skin. He peered closer, seeing tiny holes and hollow tubes perforating the rust-colored chips.

A sudden terror gripped him. Fur. There'd been fur there when the blood had dried. Now, only holes remained.

Memories of the ceremony came flooding back. Atabei had betrayed him. Hounacier was gone.

Panicked, he looked to the spot where he had plunged Hounacier's blade. A hairline scar traced along his abdomen too far off-center to be a quick mortal wound. He'd been too late. The demon had taken him.

But if the beast had healed its wounds, that meant it had killed. It had fed. Malcolm thought of his over-stuffed stomach then vomited onto the leaves. Blood and stringy chunks of meat poured from his mouth. Seeing it, he retched again then again.

Eyes watering, he spat out the bits clinging to his teeth and cheeks. He fished a broken fingernail from behind a molar and dropped it. There was still skin along the back. Curly black hairs ran though the bloody soup. He wondered whose they were. Leigh Ann's kinky hair came to mind and Malcolm vomited again until it was only dry heaves. Panting, he rolled on his back, away from the horrible slop. He desperately wanted to wash the taste from his mouth, but there was nothing but stagnant pools of swamp water.

The scarab and warding tattoos were gone, only faint, scarred shapes from where the artist's needle had pierced his skin, but the ink was no more. Not that it mattered. They required Hounacier to work, and the bond, the comforting warmth in the back of his mind that had been his one rock no matter what else had happened, was gone. He was corrupted, and she'd turned her back on him. Malcolm had failed his highest duty. He'd lost the angel's love. An anguished scream welled from inside. The birds flew away as he roared in pure, unfettered rage.

Malcolm lay there for several minutes, eyes unfocused on the tree above him. He was a monster. He'd killed. He'd fed. He'd do it again. The only release was death. Maybe the demon hadn't marked any other bodies. What if he was the only one? Malcolm's death could cheat it of a body. Even if not, Malcolm couldn't allow it use him as its vessel again. Malcolm had to die.

No
, he thought, snapping out of his trance.
No I have to tell the Order. They need to know about Atabei. About Hounacier. She murdered Ulises. She has to pay.

Anger fueling him, Malcolm rose to his feet. Flies had already found the half-digested remains. He scanned around, searching for any kind of landmark. Not finding one, he closed his eyes and listened. Wind-rustled leaves. Insect and bird song. The swish of a turtle diving into water. No cars. No sound of civilization all. With nothing to go on, Malcolm opened his eyes and headed north.

Mosquitoes swarmed around him, biting and feasting on his exposed flesh. Mud and grit squished up between his toes. Malcolm climbed fallen trees, hidden twigs poked his bare feet, and green briar tore at his legs. After a few hundred feet, he stopped and listened. Hearing nothing, he continued on.

Five minutes later, he listened again. Nothing.

A clump of scarlet caught his eyes, stark against the greens and browns. He headed for it, crawling through a tangle of briars until he came to a small clearing of high grass less than thirty feet across. Malcolm picked up a bundle of cloth hanging from the nook of a low branch. It was a shirt, half-rotted and caked in dark silt. It crinkled like an over-starched shirt as he opened it and shook out a family of tiny insects residing in the folds. "Belle Chasse High School Basketball" it read in white letters. He had clothes, sort of.

Holding it, Malcolm noticed an empty green beer bottle lying a few feet away. The sudden image of him breaking the bottle and slashing his wrists with the glass flashed though his mind. It'd be easy to do. The pain of his failure would end. The demon would lose its anchor to this world.

He shook it away.
No.

If school kids can find their way here, I'm close.
Malcolm tore the shirt in two and wrapped the filthy rags around his feet. With his homemade shoes, he searched the clearing, finding a blackened fire pit and several bits of trash. A rough trail led away into the woods.

Malcolm followed the narrow path. Sweat wetted his hair and ran in rivulets down his back. The old pain in his left knee, a leftover from when he'd slipped between the bars of a cattle grate one night when he was seventeen, was gone. He'd lived with it so long that it was just part of him. He only remembered it on days when it was acting particularly pissy. But now that it was gone, he noticed it. Not just his knee but other familiar aches were noticeably absent. His constantly knotted back, the big knuckle of his right middle finger, his cracked ribs and broken nose, all gone. His eyesight was better too. Colors were sharper and everything perfectly focused. His sense of smell, previously boosted by Hounacier's gift, hadn't diminished since…since the betrayal. Malcolm wondered if his long-missing appendix was regrown. Sick and terminal people, completely and hopelessly incurable, often sought possession. Malcolm now understood the appeal that drew so many to seek new masters once their old owners were dead.

The trees ahead ended. Beyond them, an unpainted, wooden fence ran to either side, standing just over six feet high. He slowed as he neared the tree line. Black-shingled rooftops stood visible beyond the wall. Many of the cheap panels sagged while others, obviously newer and better made, extended the lengths of individual properties. Malcolm scanned the cleared fifteen-foot strip alongside the wall. Not seeing anyone, he crept across.

Staying low, Malcolm peered through a gap between two of the graying boards. A white mutt laying on the back porch of the house lifted its head. It hopped to its feet, hackles raised, then erupted in furious barking.

Shit!

The dog charged, and Malcolm hurried down the fencerow, the barks raging behind him.

Three houses down, he noticed the black metal lever of a gate door protruding from the fence. A foot-worn trail extended from the entrance. The dog's barking continued in the background. Malcolm only hoped the racket was a common occurrence every time it saw a squirrel or any other animal. Still, it posed a threat. Creeping naked behind houses with torn T-shirt booties would be hard to explain.

He peered through the fence gaps, seeing a small yard about two weeks past the need to mow and strewn with mismatched lawn furniture. A rusted swing set with no swings stood near one side. The house itself had several rear-facing windows, most without blinds. It looked dark. No lights. No TV playing. The beige AC unit on one side was silent.

"Buddy!" a man yelled, causing Malcolm to jump. "Shut up!" The dog went silent.

Ready to run, Malcolm watched for any sign the owner might investigate. After a minute of silence, he returned his attention to the house. Sweat ran down his back, warmed in the morning sun, as he waited. After what he guessed was half an hour of being eaten by mosquitoes and not seeing anyone inside, he slowly opened the latch.

The gate hinges squeaked louder than he'd expected. Careful not to open it more than necessary, Malcolm squeezed through the tight opening and hurried up to the house, weeds crunching beneath his wrapped feet. He crouched beside a window, counted to ten, then peeked inside. Empty living room. A haphazard mound of mail cluttered the coffee table before an inactive television. The fan was still. Staying aware of the neighboring houses that might have a view, Malcolm stepped to the next window. Kitchen. Dirty dishes filled the sink below. Still no sign of occupants. Malcolm moved to the back door and checked the handle. Unlocked. Holding his breath, he inched it open. No dog barked. No alarm dinged.

Inside was cool. The sweet stink of floral plug-in air fresheners filled the kitchen. Beneath that, a faint, rotted odor emanated from the blue trashcan along one wall. He licked his dry lips, seeing the faucet, but didn't dare turn it on. Not until he knew he was alone.

Room by room, Malcolm checked the house. The parent's bedroom was mostly clean, the queen-sized bed slept in but empty. Their son, Jamie, according to the shelf of baseball trophies, wasn't home either. His bedroom smelled like a locker room, dirty socks and teenage pheromones. Malcolm peeked out of a front window. A white Ford Taurus, at least twelve years old, sat in the drive.

Satisfied he was alone, Malcolm washed the grime and sweat-melted blood from his hands and face then drank straight from a bathroom faucet. There was a dirt-taste to the water, but he didn't care. After, he checked the mirror. The black eyes and broken nose were fully healed. Even the old scar on his chin had faded, visible only because he knew what to look for. He scratched the black two-day beard, but using someone else's razor seemed wrong somehow, as if breaking into these people's house wasn't as bad as using their toothbrush and razor. The memory of the liquid remains came to mind, and Malcolm quickly got over the etiquette of not using their toothbrush.

Raiding the closets, Malcolm found a pair of rust-colored shorts, a gray T-shirt, a pair of hunting boots, and socks. The boots were a little large, so he shoved some wadded paper towels into the toes. Inside the mom's jewelry box, he found $40 and a sterling ring. It was thick with a cross-shaped cutout as the face. Malcolm slipped it onto his right ring finger. If the demon tried to take him, it'd break if not cut off the expanding digit.
Enjoy it, motherfucker.

Inside a nightstand, Malcolm discovered a well-used 1911 and two magazines of hollow points. He took them.

A narrow rack of keys hung in a hall closet. He found one labeled "Ford" then took an olive cloth and net fedora hunting hat and pulled it on. After checking though the window one last time, Malcolm stepped out, carrying a water bottle raided from the fridge. Keeping his head low, he unlocked the car. A blast of trapped summer heat hit him in the face. Without hesitating, Malcolm slid into the hot seat and stuck the key in the ignition.
Please work.

It clicked and tried to catch. Fear knotted in his chest. Malcolm tried again, and the car sputtered to a start. He backed out onto the residential street and drove away before anyone could notice. The small subdivision consisted of thirty old houses set on a U-shaped street that emptied onto a two-lane highway. With no sign and not knowing where to go, he chose left.

Fortunately, the gas tank was half-f. Gas stations had cameras, and filling a stolen car wasn't something he wanted to do. Unfortunately, the car's air conditioner didn't work. The spongy clutch forced him to mash the pedal against the floor for every gear change. It reminded him of his first car. It was a piece of shit too. Though his didn't stink of French fries and cheap pine tree air freshener made worse by the heat. Malcolm opened the window, solving both those problems.

Two miles later, Malcolm spied a familiar trailer park. His heart pounded with excitement as he turned down the little road alongside it. Anticipation quickly gave way to nervous dread. He'd killed the night before. How many? All of them? Atabei? And if he'd killed her, what became of Hounacier? How many were still there?

He rolled past the entrance drive.

The gate was closed.

Malcolm continued two hundred more feet until he found a dry strip large enough to park the car. The familiar tingles of adrenaline dancing along his shoulders were different, coupled with an inert weight in his stomach. The last time he'd felt that was when he'd driven to the Valducans' chateau from Limoges, two hunters dead, another critical, two weapons lost, and the fear that what he'd find at the end would be so much worse.

He drew a breath, checked that the pistol was loaded, and stepped out.

Gun in hand, Malcolm cut through the woods. Soft earth squished beneath his large boots. Once he'd broken though the shrub line along the road, the bayou opened up. He climbed through a rusted, barbed wire fence strung between tree trunks and rotting posts. Ahead, through the trunks and tangled branches, he spied the colored shipping containers.

Keeping low, Malcolm snuck closer, moving from tree to tree. Cicadas droned around him, their constant buzz rolling higher and lower like surf. He stopped behind a gray oak and peered across the grounds. No movement. No cars. Indigo dragonflies lazily hovered above the grassy field.
Where the hell are they?
Obviously, someone had survived.

Malcolm skirted behind the tree line, scanning for signs of life. As he passed a clump of narrow trees, he jumped, coming face to face with a lean figure. Enormous, red, white-pupiled eyes glared out from a smooth face. Its lips were curled into an exaggerated frown. Bleached white bones ran down the straw-bundled arms and legs, bound with brightly colored string. Animal rib bones encased its grass torso.

Shaking his head, Malcolm let out a breath and bypassed the warding totem. Whatever power the figure had, it was useless on him. Had he not already known where the ceremony ring was, it might have worked in misdirecting him.