Hounacier (Valducan Book 2) (22 page)

The old man's pale lips curled downward. The oxygen hose to his nose emphasized the deep frown lines. Slowly, he reached down and clicked off the baby monitor.

Malcolm sat still, meeting the old man's cold stare.

After several quiet seconds, Mister Alpuente spoke. "Just heard that police found a family murdered. Husband, wife, two children: five and fifteen months."

Malcolm looked away.

"Think it was some kind of animal did that to them. Tore 'em to pieces."

Malcolm closed his eyes, trying to push out the shame. There was no use denying it.

"Ulises ever tell you how we met?"

Malcolm shook his head. "Always thought it was through Jim."

"No. Jim came along later. My…wife, Rachel…she died." Alpuente swallowed. "She was drivin' back from Atlanta. Antique auction. Police called, said they found her truck in Mississippi, antiques still in the back, but she was gone." The old man's slender fingers tightened on the shotgun. "Week later, they found her. Cut up. Police suspected some Manson copycat did it. Took her liver… Cut out her womb."

"She was pregnant," Malcolm said. Ulises had told him about hunting an aswang back in the 70s. He'd never mentioned Tasha's grandmother.

Alpuente nodded, anger burning in his gray eyes. "We'd just found out. Our daughter Jill had just started college. She came back home to be with me. I was lost. Couldn't get up in the morning. I couldn't do anything. Jill brought me to Maggie. Said she could help. Maggie introduced me to Ulises." He shook his head, a faint grin pulling at his lips. "He was all tattooed. Had this dumb-ass hair. Not the type of person I normally associated with, but he wanted to hear the story. So I told him."

There was no question where this was leading. The old man's twisting hands on the gun, the quickening breath as he spoke. Psyching himself up for what he intended to do. The footsteps continued moving above. If Malcolm called out for Tasha, the old man would kill him before she even reached the stairs.

Keep him talking.
"What did he say?"

"He told me about demons. Sounded like bullshit to me." Alpuente scowled and shook his head. "He was so sure. But I didn't believe him. Then police found a second body."

"Another woman?" Malcolm asked, risking his voice a little louder than normal.

Alpuente nodded. "Twenty years old. My daughter's age. After that, I told Ulises I'd help him any way I could."

Tasha's footsteps stopped. Maybe she heard them talking.
Why do I care? He's doing me a favor.
Malcolm had given his report. The Order knew what Atabei had done. This was the final piece. They both knew it.

The old man's jaw twitched. Resolve was cementing.

Not like this. This isn't his burden to carry.
"What did you do?"

"We drove out to Jackson County. Spent three weeks there narrowing it down. I started thinkin' I was going crazy, me and this voodoo priest and his magic machete. I didn't believe in a god back then, but I wanted to. Demon or not, I wanted to find the son of a bitch that took my wife from me."

"Did you?" Malcolm asked.

"Yeah. Tracked it down to an old fire tower. We saw it flyin' out after sunset, silhouetted against the sky. So we went up there and waited." His pink tongue ran across his upper lip. "It had these little poppets up in there, made of grass. Three of 'em. One was Rachel. Just before dawn, we heard it land on the railing outside. I've never been so scared. Ulises though, he did what he had to. He put his finger to his lips and waited beside the door."

Tasha's footsteps hurried from the room above.

Alpuente didn't seem to notice. "Before it even knew we were there, Ulises was on it, chopping that machete of his until it burned. He avenged my wife. I saw it." The old man raised the gun. "I saw the monster. I know what you are. I know what you did!"

Malcolm met the old man's gaze over the top of the twin barrels. "You don't have to do this."

"Yes I do!" The old man closed his eyes, the gun still trained on him. "I'm sorry, Mal."

Running footsteps clapped up the hall. Malcolm braced for the blast.

The storeroom door swung open.

Alpuente whirled as Jim stepped inside

"Dad!"

"Close the door!" Alpuente yelled, bringing the gun back toward Malcolm.

Jim dove toward him, grabbing the barrel and pushing it away. "Dad, stop it!"

"No!" Alpuente yelled. "You don't know what he is. What he's done."

Malcolm sat motionless as Jim wrestled the shotgun from the old man's hands.

Tasha stepped in, eyes wide. She looked at Malcolm then at the old man clawing at Jim.

"He has to die!"

"Pawpaw, please!" Tasha wrapped her arms around the old man and pulled him away.

"No!" Alpuente shouted.

She hugged him tighter.

"You don't understand." Alpuente's voice cracked, and tears began to form. "You don't know what he is."

Jim looked at the shotgun in his hands. "Take him out of here."

"Come on, Pawpaw," Tasha said as she led the sobbing man out.

"He's a monster…a monster!"

Malcolm looked at Jim, still staring at the gun. "Thank you."

The priest looked up at him like he was a stranger. Anger boiled in his eyes. The muscles in his jaw flexed. "I'll bring you some food in a bit." He turned and left.

Malcolm let out a long, slow breath as the door thudded closed. His heart pounded against his chest, urging him to move, get up, walk around and burn off the tension. But the chains held him. The old man had nearly done it. Malcolm couldn't help but wonder if the relief he felt was his or the demon's.

#

Hours dragged by. Malcolm counted the bricks again. Slept. Twice, Jim had brought food and taken away his piss pot, never saying a word. Without windows or a clock, time became lost. He heard no voices in the shop. No sounds at all but the occasional footsteps outside the door or distant, unintelligible conversations. Malcolm guessed they'd closed the shop, maybe fearing he might yell for help. Smart.

Even the dark itching had abandoned him.

Malcolm lay on his side, eyes unfocused across the scarred, wooden floor. He knew this was the last floor he'd ever see. His mind replayed the long journey that had led to this. He remembered that first meeting with Ulises, how a golden opportunity for his dissertation had changed his life so suddenly. It was almost a trap. Mama Ritha had sent him there knowing perfectly well where it would lead: Faith, Horrors, Love, finally Death.

Everyone knew but him. All the followers at that first ceremony knew what Hounacier was. They knew he was Ulises protégé. Papa Ghede had told him, but Malcolm hadn't believed in loa. Then the monster and the complete terror he'd felt. His faith was born in terror. How else could he have expected it to end?

He remembered how the loa had circled the dead demon, cradling it as it changed back to human. They'd wept and mourned the man who died so that it could be destroyed. He'd been given a hero's funeral. Malcolm remembered the woman at the ceremony, the way the possessed man had searched the audience for her when they'd brought him into the ring, the way she'd wailed at his death.

The woman!

Malcolm's eyes opened, but he watched the scene replaying across his mind. The slender woman in the crowd. Atabei Cross.

A crazed chuckle rose from Malcolm's throat. He remembered her now. The day he'd found love and faith, she'd found loss and hate. There was a perverse symmetry in how it now ended.

The door thumped and creaked open.

Still chuckling, Malcolm rolled, expecting Jim with food. He stopped as he saw the black leather boots, their toes scuffed to a bluish gray. Malcolm's gaze moved up to see a lean man with a sandy mop of hair. He held a plastic water bottle in one hand, its label torn away. A red bead pressed against the back inner wall, toward the mask in Tasha's arms behind him. The man's other hand held an enormous black and gold revolver. Bronze wolf heads capped the ivory grip. A thick, Bowie-style blade extended below the barrel, its silver edge gleaming to a fine point. He trained the gun on Malcolm.

Malcolm met the newcomer's tight-jawed face. "Hi, Matt."

Chapter Sixteen

The thin, sandy patches of Matt's week-old beard resembled a teenager's first attempt at facial hair. He swallowed, lips moving as if trying to find the words. Finally, "Hi, Mal," his voice devoid of emotion.

"Congratulations for you and Luiza. That's…that's really good news."

"Yeah, we're real excited." Matt's voice didn't contain that familiar Louisiana twang Malcolm had always heard before. Everyone described it differently. Luc said it was Eastern French, Allan as Estuary, and Master Sonu said it was definitely from Mumbai. The familiar accent was always calming but unsettling when he thought about it. But now… Now, it was gone. Was this his real voice? The idea that he could now hear Matt as he really was somehow creeped Malcolm out more than the chameleon accents ever did.

Malcolm maneuvered his cuffed hands, pushing himself into a sitting position. Chains tinked and rattled with the movement. "You have a due date yet?"

"January." Matt looked at the water bottle in his hand. The red bead tracked the mask's movement as Tasha stepped up beside him. He gave her a nod.

Tasha met Malcolm's eyes. Apprehension shadowed the corners of her lips. Malcolm gave a resigned sigh, and Tasha flipped the mask toward him.

The sudden blast knocked Malcolm onto his back. Pain rippled through his body. The metal collar tightened and loosened against his undulating neck. Rage and hatred and fear washed though him as an inhuman whine rumbled from his chest.

Then it was gone.

"Thank you, Miss Luison," Matt said. "Can you leave us alone for a bit?"

Catching his breath, Malcolm pulled himself back up in time to catch Tasha's sad, apologetic look as she closed the door.

Matt shook his head. "I've never liked those masks."

Malcolm suppressed a snort. "Didn't expect you here so fast."

"Caught a ship in Panama. Just got in."

"I figured as much. You look like hell."

Matt's brow arched. He eyed Malcolm's chains, chuckled, then they both started laughing. It wasn't funny, but the release of tension just exerted itself. Dämoren's barrel didn't move despite the knight's laughter.

Matt set the bottle on the floor. Keeping the revolver trained, he pulled one of the chairs from the wall and lowered into the seat. From a pocket, he withdrew a rectangular black recorder and set it on the floor beside the bottle. He stared at Malcolm long and hard before shaking his head. "You know…back when I first met Clay, it was like this. I was on the floor, he was in a chair holding Dämoren on me trying to decide what to do."

Malcolm ran his tongue across the back of his teeth. The bastard was loving this.
What are you waiting for?
The image of his head knocking back, blood and brains splattering the bricks behind him. He shivered at the horror and excitement of it. "What's to decide?"

Matt glanced down at the blood compass. "It's not in you right now. Killing you won't kill the demon. But you'll still be dead."

"But I'll be free. I won't have fear of it taking me again. I won't have to wake up realizing what I've done and who I've killed. I won't have to…" Malcolm took a breath, the words caught in his throat. "I won't have to live knowing that I lost Hounacier."

"And that's what it's really about, isn't it?" Matt asked. "Hounacier?"

A hot spike of anger twisted in Malcolm's chest. "You wouldn't understand."

"Wouldn't I?"

Do it! Shoot me!
Malcolm regarded the holy revolver. "No, you wouldn't."

Matt's lips pursed as biting back a retort. "Does Hounacier still live?"

"Yes." Malcolm twisted his cuffed hand around, revealing the faded scar where the warding eye had once been. "But she's turned her back on me."

Matt's hard expression softened for only a moment. "How did it happen?"

Malcolm snorted. "The eye and the scarab react to demons. With one inside me, they pushed the only direction they could. Straight out."

"That's not what I mean," Matt said, straightening in his chair. "The possession. Tell me how this happened."

Finally.
Malcolm motioned to the half-f water bottle by his knee. "May I?"

Matt nodded.

Keeping his hand open to show no threat, Malcolm took the room-temperature bottle and finished it off. He drew a breath then began his final debriefing.

#

"So I broke my finger to keep the ring from coming off then stabbed the nail cross into my other hand and ran to the shop. The rest…" He lifted his cuffed hands until the belt-chain rattled taught and displayed the now unbroken finger.

Matt nodded. He hadn't spoken once during the entire story. Malcolm had shared it all: the mask, the gris-gris for Duplessis' wife, the succubus blowing an incubus, the return of his sawed-off, everything. The gunman swallowed and nodded his head. Dämoren's aim hadn't moved from Malcolm's heart once, even when Matt had rolled Malcolm a fresh water bottle. He held it with a casual elegance, the same way a master carpenter might hold a hammer, as if it were not a thing he held but some hyper-evolved extension to his hand. All hunters held their weapons in that manner, but the fact that his was a gun and not a sword or axe gave it a more intimidating edge.

"How many followers would you estimate she has?" Matt asked.

"Based off the ceremony, I'd say at least a dozen devout. Duplessis said she has leverage on many more. Cost of her lifestyle, I'd guess easily a hundred." Malcolm clenched his jaw. "No matter how many there are, promise me…promise me you'll kill her."

"You don't have to ask that, Mal," Matt said. "She'll pay."

"And if…for some reason Hounacier has bonded…"

"Don't worry." Matt glanced down at the little recorder. "No weapon has ever bonded with their protector's killer. We know Hounacier won't do that. Atabei will pay."

Malcolm closed his eyes. "Thank you."

"And you're certain she has only one mask left?"

"If she'd had more, they would have been at the ceremony." Malcolm picked up his water and awkwardly took a swig.

Matt nodded. "And you're sure you can't recall any of the words she used to draw it out?"

"If I did, I'd tell you. Sounded like the same thing those cultists in Italy spoke. First Tongue."

"Any thoughts on how she learned it?"

Malcolm shook his head. "She said she trained with priests, an exorcist, the loa, but I don't know."

"Loa?" Matt asked, brow raised.

"Voodoo spirits, like angels or local deities. But I doubt they shared the secret with her."

"Why's that?"

"She didn't want to call them to the ceremony. If the power came from them, she would have. Also," Malcolm added, "If they knew how to do that or were inclined to share it, they would have told me or Ulises long before then."

"So you've met them?"

"Many times."

Matt's lips tightened, seeming to chew on that.

"You don't believe me?" Malcolm asked.

"With everything I've seen?" Matt's brow rose. "You say it's true, it's true. I was just…thinking."

Malcolm finished his water. The interview was nearing its close. Not much time now. He wondered how they were going to move his body out and hoped Tasha wasn't around to hear the shot, to see his blood. Would she ever enter this room again? Maybe she'd choose to block it out, think of their date as their last meeting. He hoped she would. He hoped she'd find someone and forget about him.

Matt continued gnawing his lip, stalling the inevitable.

Malcolm eyed the revolver. Dämoren 3.0, Allan called it. It was sleeker than its predecessor, streamlined, the barrel bored straight through the thick upper blade. Had Matt killed a demon with it yet? Would Malcolm be its first? His gaze followed the smooth form down to the bronze wolf heads. Anger writhed and bristled in his chest, blossoming like a poisoned thistle. Of course he'd be its first. The wolf. He could almost see the silver slug watching him through the barrel, the spirit inside it shivering with anticipation of tasting his blood. He remembered the first time he'd ever seen those bronze heads. He should have killed him then. In that moment, Malcolm hated that gun more than Atabei, more than anything.

"Why did you have to break your finger?" Matt asked, the sudden question surprising Malcolm.

"What?" He tried to shake off the dark thoughts, but they clung like sticky grease.

"You broke your finger to keep the ring on," Matt said. "I get piercing yourself with silver, but why break your finger?"

Malcolm's brow furrowed in confusion. What a stupid question. He'd just told about how the demon had removed the ring. So why…wait… Malcolm mentally ran through his story. He hadn't told Matt about that. How could he have forgotten that? He opened his mouth to tell him, but instead of what he intended, he said, "I was worried it might fall off. If somehow the cross came out of my hand or maybe wasn't in deep enough. Contingency."

No!
Malcolm screamed inside his mind.
No!

Matt nodded, seeming to accept the lie.

The little itch that had been quiet for so long tickled Malcolm's brain. "
You thought you were in control?
"

"Also," he added, his face not revealing the least trace of Malcolm's horror. "I think I just wanted to punish myself, you know? For what I'd done."

"Yeah," Matt said with a sympathetic frown. "I understand."

Malcolm's gaze flicked down to the blood compass. The single bead had elongated but hadn't split. Matt hadn't checked it in half an hour anyway. He wanted to scream, tell him to look at it, but he couldn't. He could only watch and listen.

Matt sighed, the lax muscles in his arm tightening, preparing. "Mal…I know we haven't always gotten along." He licked his lips, resolve cementing. "I wish this wasn't how it ended."

"You don't have to do this," Malcolm said plainly as the he screamed inside,
Do it!
How had he let this happen?

Hardness formed in Matt's eyes. "We both know I do."

"No." Malcolm shook his head. "There's another way, Matt. You can save me."

The hardness seemed to crack. "How?"

"Atabei. She can take it out. She can free me."

"Do you really think she would?"

The red bead stretched more, growing heavy at either end. "I think you could make her. She'd do it to save herself." Malcolm's invisible reins loosened just a bit, and the blood sphere compressed back to normal.

Matt's lips pursed. The corners of his eyes tightened, the dilemma playing across his face.

Seizing the opening, Malcolm blurted, "Ki—" The reigns snapped taut, and Malcolm coughed, cutting off the words. "Killing the demon and recovering Hounacier is all that matters. Atabei is the key to both." He coughed again as if clearing his throat. He took a breath then met Matt's cautious stare, his eyes pleading and sincere. "I remember how you hated me when I'd killed those demon-bound in Limoges. You'd told me once how I'd never understand. I do, Matt. You were right." He shook his head. "I couldn't have understood. But I do now. There is
another
way."

Do it, Matt! Do it! Please, God, see through this.

Unmoving, his face unreadable, Matt looked at him for nearly a full minute. Finally, he nodded. "All right."

A defeated weight sank in Malcolm's heart.

Matt licked his lips. He drew a breath, the gun barrel lifting with the movement. "I'm going to clean up. Bring you some water. I need to think about this."

"Do that," Malcolm said. "No knight would decide right now. Just…if you decide to put me down, don't let Tasha see it. We, um…" He looked away. "I love her."

"I understand," Matt said. "I promise."

Fantasies of Matt's screams and terror flashed though Malcolm's mind, interspersed with Alpuente and Jim's dead and bloodied faces, the pain of betrayal in their eyes. Excitement sizzled though his veins. But he didn't move, didn't say a word as Matt rose and left. He saw himself rooting his muzzle up beneath Tasha's wet and sticky ribcage, seeing up between her breasts to the dead and frozen scream, then biting down on her stilled heart, hot blood bursting in his mouth.

The door shut and locked.

"
And to think I resisted coming here. No, Malcolm, we're going to be together for a long time.
"

#

Malcolm lay on the floor, a prisoner in his own body. The demon had released its hold only enough for him to adjust his position, but he could feel the tethers' presence, ready for any disobedience. No longer hiding its presence, Malcolm experienced the full extent of his heightened senses. The stink of his own body filled the room like syrupy fog. Still, he could smell the wood and leather of the furniture no longer in the room, the food in the distant kitchen, even the wafting scents of whoever passed near his cell's door. He could hear them too, murmurs and footsteps outside and across the house.