Deadtown

In the bed, Frank had resumed snoring. I surveyed the room. On the demonic plane, it was a mess—shattered window, expensive white carpet torn and stained. I went into the bathroom to wash the gooey, smelly, green-black Harpy blood off my dagger. In the mirror, I was a mess, too—my face flicked with a dozen cuts, my arm gashed by a Harpy bite. Gazing at my reflection, I closed my senses to the world of the demons. As if by magic, the cuts closed up, faded, then disappeared. When I returned to the bedroom, normal reality showed the room in its previous condition, except for a whiff of sulfur in the air. If that wasn’t gone by morning, Frank’s carpet would need a good steam cleaning.

CARRYING MY TWO DUFFEL BAGS, I TROTTED DOWN THE stairs. By the front door, the bodyguard sat with his chair tilted back against the wall. He leaned there, mouth open, snoring like he was trying to beat the boss in a snoring competition.

The smell of sulfur still clung to me. I needed fresh air. I remembered there was a balcony on this floor, too, off the living room. I’d take a minute to step outside, get my head clear. Walking through the darkened living room, I dropped my bag by the chair where Frank had sipped brandy earlier. Then I opened the balcony door and slipped outside.

The night was chilly, with a hint of frost, but sparkling clear. Perfect. I stood with my hands on the cold railing, facing the harbor, and inhaled the crystalline air, cleansing my lungs of the foulness of demons. It was about eleven forty, and it was quiet. Blessedly quiet. I could perceive a faint echo of the screams and groans in the demonic plane, but as I stood and focused on my breathing, those subsided, then faded out entirely. Revitalized, I went back inside.

In the front hall, I stopped and regarded the big norm sleeping in his chair. Some bodyguard. Hmm, I wondered, how should I awaken Sleeping Beauty? A gentle shake of the shoulder—or a good swift kick to send the chair flying out from under him? Decisions, decisions.

Before I could make up my mind, a funny feeling prickled along my arms, goose-bumping my flesh. I looked around. Nothing. The feeling returned, stronger, like an electric current. It raced up my arms and past my shoulders to make the hair on the back of my neck stand at attention. What was that?

I stepped forward, and the feeling intensified. I stopped and listened, straining to hear past the bodyguard’s snores. Somewhere in the distance, but inside the building, I heard a bang, like a door slamming. The sound sent shivers through my bones.

Get a grip, Vicky. This is a condo development. People slam doors.

Something banged again. Louder.

I ran across the hall, grabbed the bodyguard’s shirt, and shook him. The T-shirt tore like tissue. He sputtered and grabbed for his gun, but I held his arms fast. His eyes widened when he realized it was me, or maybe when he realized that I could force him to hold still. “What the—?” he began.

“You’ve gotta tell me something.” My voice sounded wild. “Do people slam doors in this building?”

“Slam—?” He looked bewildered. His eyes had lost that heavy-lidded, sleepy look, but there was drool on his chin.

“Hey, let me go. What the hell are you talking about, slamming doors?”

Another bang.

“Like that.”

A frown creased his forehead. “Nah. I never heard that before. Frankie built this place real good. It’s got sound-proofing.” He flexed his biceps, then strained both arms outward, but he couldn’t break my hold. “Come on,” he said, “lemme go.” I released his arms, and he wiped his chin with the back of his hand.

That’s when the screeching started.

This time, the bodyguard grabbed my arm. “What the hell was that?”

I yanked away. “Which way’s the kitchen?”

He looked at me funny, like maybe he was thinking this was no time for a coffee break, but he pointed to the right. “Through those doors.”

I took off running before the words were out of his mouth and slammed through the swinging doors. The kitchen was modern, all granite and chrome, and every surface was empty. No salt shaker on the table or the stove. I began opening cabinets, one after another, but I couldn’t find what I was looking for.

Another horrible screech sounded, and the bodyguard stood in the doorway. “What do you think you’re doing? And what’s making that noise?”

“Salt!” I yelled, and he looked at me like I was insane. “Where does Frank keep the salt?” He gaped at me, not answering. “Don’t just stand there, damn it! We’ve got to stop that demon!”

That got him moving. He was surprisingly fast for someone the size of a battleship. He opened a cupboard next to the stove and took out a round blue container.

“Iodized?” he asked.

“Doesn’t matter. Get back out there. Sprinkle a line of salt across the doorway. If the thing comes in anyway, throw a handful at it. Aim for the eyes.”

The screeching was in the outer hallway now. The bodyguard stared at me with bug eyes. “You want me to throw salt at it.”

“Aim for the eyes,” I repeated, pushing him out the door. In the hallway, I quit pushing and split off toward the living room. The bodyguard stopped in his tracks and stared at me over his shoulder. He looked scared. “I’ll be there in a minute,” I said. “I’ve got to prepare.”

But there was no time. The front door burst open, and Difethwr loomed on the threshold, hideous, making Lucado’s bodyguard look like a midget. The Hellion was even more terrifying than I remembered it. Its warty blue skin glistened with slime that dripped from its body in long, mucouslike strings. It stretched its mouth into a horrible grin, revealing row upon row of razor-sharp teeth—hundreds of them. Flames shot from its eyes, its mouth. The bodyguard stopped, craned his neck to get a look at the thing, and then keeled over in a dead faint. Shit.

I ran to him, grabbed the salt from his hand, and poured it around his prone body in a lopsided circle, silently chanting words of protection, charging the salt with their power. Difethwr advanced, filling the room with screeches so painful you wanted to cut off your ears. I looked up and saw the yellow eye-flames sweep toward me. And I froze. It was the worst night of my life all over again. I was back in Aunt Mab’s library, helplessly watching this creature destroy my father, Dad’s body twisting in agony.

No, no, no.

The Hellion laughed, exactly as it had laughed that night, and I snapped back to the here and now. This demon was not going to make a victim of me twice.

I poured salt into my hand, the grains spilling over the edges of my palm and skittering across the hardwood floor. I charged the salt with my intention—Stopiwch! Arhosa!—commands to halt, to immobilize. Salt wouldn’t destroy a Hellion, but it would make the thing hurt and slow it down. As I finished the spell, I clenched my hand into a fist. The charged salt vibrated with power, and I felt a twinge in my arm. Difethwr had stopped by the fallen bodyguard and was streaming fire at him.

The flames bounced and sparked off the bubble of protection that shielded the man. Inside the circle, he lay unharmed, looking like he was asleep. The Hellion roared with fury, then raised its eyes to me.

I drew back my arm and took aim. The tingling in my arm intensified. It felt like a swarm of spiders crawling under my skin. The salt in my fist grew hot—blisteringly, unbearably hot. I couldn’t hold it. My fingers opened; the salt fell to the floor. And the pain—my whole arm blazed with a fiery ache that tormented like the touch of Difethwr’s flames. Weak and useless, the arm dropped to my side. I couldn’t make it move. The demon mark glowed a fiery red.

Difethwr laughed again, and I understood. The arm that bore the Hellion’s mark would not act against the demon.

Well, the rest of me could still fight. Hastily, I knelt and scooped up a pile of salt with my left hand. Still on my knees, I hurled the salt as hard as I could left-handed.

My aim was off, and most of the salt sailed past its right shoulder. But some hit the target. The demon clawed at its eyes, its shrieks rising to a whole new level. “Difethwr,” I shouted over the din, “I banish thee back to the Hell whence thou came.”

The last words my father ever spoke.

The Hellion staggered back, and I ran for the living room. I opened the duffel bag and reached in with my left hand—my right arm still hung limp—and fumbled around until I found the sword. I grasped the hilt and pulled it out. Heavy footsteps approached from the hall. Moving as fast as I could, I got the sanctified wine out, but I couldn’t get the top off with just one hand. Flames danced over the edge of the Persian rug. I looked up. Difethwr stood in the doorway. My sword’s blade remained cold and dull.

I looked wildly around the room. Too much to hope for that Lucado would have a little sanctified wine lying around, but then I saw the brandy decanter. It was worth a try. As Difethwr advanced, I grabbed the decanter with my left hand, yanked out the glass stopper with my teeth, spit it out, and poured brandy along the blade. As I did, I whispered the ancient spell. A faint glow played along the edge of the blade—or was it the reflection of Hellion fire?

Come on, I whispered, come on.

Difethwr laughed, and the back of my neck tensed, anticipating a blast of Hellion fire. But I kept my focus on the sword.

The blade glowed. A flicker ran along one edge. And then the blade burst into flame. I straightened, and turned to face the Destroyer.

The sword felt awkward and heavy in my left hand as I raised it. Not six feet away, the demon stopped. It pulled back its flames until all I could see of them was a smolder behind its eyes. We faced each other.

Difethwr chuckled, a deep, gravelly rumble. And then it spoke my name. Its voice sounded like a dozen demons speaking together, not quite in unison, in a huge, echoing chamber. “Victory Vaughn,” it said, “thy true name is Vanquished.” Another rumbling laugh. “Prepare to join thy sire.”

“Don’t you dare talk about my father, Hellion.”

“True. ’Tis senseless to speak of things that are no more.” The thing regarded me, running its pointed black tongue over all those teeth. I tightened my grip on the sword. God, I wished I could use my right arm. “No trace remains of thy father. We destroyed his soul.” ns class="adsbygoogle" style="display:block" data-ad-client="ca-pub-7451196230453695" data-ad-slot="9930101810" data-ad-format="auto" data-full-width-responsive="true">