Hellhound

I ignored him as I gathered my thoughts. Sorcerers command demons. Or try to. It’s a dangerous business, and sooner or later most sorcerers get their heads handed to them—literally—by the demons they attempt to force into servitude. One sloppy gesture, one incantatory syllable uttered off-pitch, and the demon seizes the opportunity to attack its so-called master. As the drops of coffee cooled on my neck, I kinda wished Foster would try his hand at sorcery. He wouldn’t last one summoning.

“A highly skilled sorcerer might be able to bind the Morfran to a zombie,” I said to Daniel. “Instead of feeding directly on the zombie, the Morfran would feed on the acts of destruction it drove its host to commit.”

“Turning the zombie into a killing machine.”

Foster whooped with laughter. Instead, he should’ve been cowering under the table. Zombies are incredibly strong and nearly indestructible. A zombie driven by the Morfran would make an unstoppable weapon.

“If the binding is imperfect,” I said, “eventually the Morfran would turn on its host. That may be what happened last night.” I drained the last mouthful of coffee from my cup and stood up. “Let’s talk to the next witness. Maybe he saw something Andy didn’t. I don’t want to follow this line of reasoning too far if Malone’s death turns out to be an ordinary Morfran attack.”

Foster stood, too. “‘Line of reasoning,’” he mocked. “Could you enlighten me as to which part of what you’ve said has anything to do with reason?”

“What’s your problem, Foster? Don’t you believe in demons?” It’d almost be worth the expense of paying a sorcerer to send a few Harpies to visit the guy and change his mind.

Foster thrust his ugly face within an inch of mine. “I believe hiring you is a waste of taxpayers’ money.”

My demon mark flared. I’d show this jerk ugly. I wanted to get Foster in a headlock and ram his face into the cinder-block wall. Over and over, until his skull was cracked, his nose was a mushy pulp, and his teeth crunched under my boots. How satisfying that would—

“Leave it alone, Foster.” Daniel’s voice brought me back to myself as he stood and stepped between us. “Vicky’s a colleague, whether you like it or not.” He offered me his arm, like a Victorian gentleman going for a stroll, and we strolled right past Foster. I hoped a fly would invade his wide-open mouth as we passed.

“Ready for the next witness?” Daniel asked as we left the cafeteria.

“After that exchange, I’d be delighted to converse with another zombie.”

“Me, too. This guy didn’t see as much, though.” We waited for the heavy metal door to open and return us to the maximum security wing. When we were through, Daniel continued. “He was sitting in the back of the van, behind—”

“Hey, Detective.” The window in Andy Skibinsky’s door was still open. The square, barred opening in the door framed his face. “Got a minute? There’s something I forgot to tell you.”

“That window shouldn’t be open,” Foster said, coming up from behind us. He moved to close it.

“Wait,” Daniel said. Surprisingly, Foster paused. “What is it, Andy?”

“Could you come back inside? It’s not somethin’ I feel like shouting across the hall.”

“I’ll get a guard.” Daniel set off toward the guards’ station.

Andy looked at me and smiled. A zombie’s smile is never a pretty sight, but something in his face unnerved me. “Are you all right?”

“Great.” His smile broadened until it threatened to split his skin. A tic jittered at one corner of his mouth. He glanced from me to Foster, then back.

Daniel was returning with the guard, who sorted through his ring of keys. Andy pressed his face against the bars, straining to see them. The tic had moved to his eye. The black tip of his tongue protruded from his lips, and he was panting. His fingers twitched where he gripped the bars.

“Wait,” I said, putting out an arm to hold the others back. “Something’s not right.”

Andy snarled. He shook it off, and the smile reappeared. “Come on,” he wheedled. “Just open the door.”

“Andy, what’s happening?” I said.

He ignored me, his eyes fixed on the guard. “Open the door.”

“I’m shuttering that damn window,” Foster said. He reached for the metal plate.

“Open the door!” The two steel bars snapped off like plastic in the zombie’s fists. His arm shot out into the hallway, his hand grasping. It found Foster’s tie and clutched it.

Foster screamed—or tried to. The best he could manage was a gurgling sound as strong zombie fingers tightened their grip.

Inside his cell, Andy roared. The sound was way too intense to come from the throat of one zombie. The scream was wrapped in a sound like the cawing of a hundred angry crows.

Caw caw caw!

“Morfran!” I shouted.

Foster’s heels did a rapid-fire tap dance against the tiles.

The guard reached for his gun.

Foster’s eyes bulged. His tongue protruded from his purple face.

The guard fired, hitting Andy’s elbow. With a howl, he dropped Foster and withdrew his arm.

For a moment, all was quiet. I opened my senses to the demon plane. Dozens of crows screamed, but I couldn’t see them. They were inside Andy. And that meant there was no way to help him.

The best I could do was trap the Morfran when it emerged from his body. I drew Hellforged and readied the slate.

Bam! The door shook as Andy threw his body against it.

“Open the doooor!”

Caw caw caw!

A bulge appeared in the door where Andy had dented it.

Caw caw caw caw caw cawcawcaw!

More dents, faster. A crack of light opened at the top of the frame.

I felt sick, waiting, my ears ringing with the racket of screams and caws. There was nothing I could do for Andy, no way to help.

The crack of light widened as the door buckled. The guard braced, his gun pointed at the door.

A moan, low and drawn out, then silence.

“Andy?” Daniel said.

“My head. Oh God, my head. I’m sorry. Tell my wife . . .” The words dissolved into another moan. The sound built in pitch to a scream.

Hellforged felt slippery in my sweaty palm. I knew the agony Andy was feeling. But I couldn’t get the Morfran out of him. All I could do was wait.

The screams came fast, a single, continuous sound. Like a siren, rising and falling and rising again without a pause. I wanted to cover my ears, block out the blare of his pain. So much pain. But I couldn’t. I had to be ready.

Then it happened. With a boom! and a wet, tearing noise, the Morfran burst from Andy’s body. Black goo shot past the cell door and splattered the ceiling and walls. Furious cawing filled the air as crows the size of eagles shot out of the cell.

I raised Hellforged in my left hand and circled it clockwise over my head. Come on, you bastards, I thought, drawing the deadly spirit toward me. The racket quieted a couple of decibels, and I felt a drag on the dagger. I glanced upward. The crows were circling, circling, following the motion of my arm. I concentrated, pulling them in.

The drag on Hellforged increased as the dagger pulled more of the Morfran into its orbit. The crows moved closer to its blade. A tingle of cold whispered against my fingertips. The icy feeling crept into my hand. Next, my wrist ached with a cold so intense it burned. When the feeling shot up my arm, I transferred the dagger to my right hand.

“Parhau! Ireos! Mantrigo!” Pointing Hellforged at the slate, I shouted the incantation to bind the Morfran. A sword of icy pain slashed across my chest and down my right arm. A streak of blue lightning erupted from the dagger’s tip and slammed into the target. The slate jumped a foot in the air. It clattered to the floor, shuddering. It shuddered again and then lay still. A curl of bluish smoke, almost lazy, wafted toward the ceiling.

Silence settled over the hallway.

I sheathed Hellforged and rubbed the lingering cold from my arms.

Daniel rose from where he’d been crouching against the wall. Spots of black stuff—the remains of Andy Skibinsky—dotted his tie and the side of his jaw. He took out a handkerchief and rubbed his face.

The guard had fainted, but he was alive. We went to Foster. He lay on his back, gasping for breath. His suit was clean, no black goo, but there was a wet spot on his trousers where he’d pissed himself.

“He’s all right,” Daniel said. He was too nice a guy for me to imagine there was disappointment in his voice.

“Andy’s broken ankle,” I said. Daniel looked at me, uncomprehending. “It was a compound fracture. That’s how the Morfran possessed him. Last night after it exploded out of Malone, it entered his wound.”

“But you got it, right?” He gestured toward the slate.

I opened my senses to the demon plane. The dingy corridor grew dingier, smells of sulfur and brimstone assaulted my nostrils. The air was full of sounds—screams, cackles, howls, shrieks. Demons were out and about, tormenting their victims. But the sounds were all distant; there was no cawing, not even an echo. No trace of Morfran here.

“I did,” I said, pulling back from the demon plane. “This is a certified Morfran-free zone.” A thought struck me. “But we don’t know whether any of the other witnesses were possessed by the Morfran when it left Malone’s body. Were there other injuries?”

“They got banged around some, but nothing like Skibinsky’s fracture. On the other hand, they’re . . . you know, zombies.”

I did know, of course. Because zombies don’t heal, every zombie in Deadtown carries around cuts and scrapes, or worse. If the Morfran could possess a zombie by entering through an open wound, there wasn’t a single zombie in Boston who was safe.

8

BACK AT THE CHECKPOINT, I WAS ASTONISHED WHEN I presented my receipt and actually got my weapons back. Two daggers, a pistol, and two magazines of bronze bullets. I couldn’t believe it. 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">