Hounacier (Valducan Book 2) (11 page)

He spun, searching the direction opposite the tattoo. A tall, broad-shouldered man walked toward the exit, arm in arm with a longhaired woman with caramel skin. They stepped through the open door and turned. The tattoo itched, moving away until they walked out of range.

Heart thumping, Malcolm pushed his way toward the outer wall. The scarab moved again, sensing the demon on the sidewalk outside.

"Excuse me," he said, nearly walking into a crowded table as he tried to follow the demon's path.

One of the patrons mumbled some insult behind him as Malcolm neared a window. The tattoo inched along, tracking the creature. As expected, the couple strolled into view.

Malcolm ducked back before it could see him.
What now?
One of them was possessed, but which? What of the other one? Familiar? Potential victim?

The scarab moved back to its normal position once the creature was too far away for it to feel. Malcolm checked the window again, seeing the couple continuing on. Did the demon know who he was? Maybe the werebeast had switched bodies and was trying to lure him out. If so, its victim was bait. Someone would die if he didn't act.

Anger flared in his chest. Ulises dead, Orlovski down, people following him, and now a fucking demon strolling by, flaunting its next meal. Malcolm clenched his jaw, watching them cross the street. "Not tonight you don't." Clutching Hounacier's strap along his shoulder, he hurried out into the sticky night.

He dashed between a pair of slow-rolling cars. Once across the street, he peered down the corner where they had turned and spied the couple a block ahead, her arm still looped through his. Before, the shadows might have obscured them, making them difficult to see, but not anymore. A little grin pulled at Malcolm's lip as he followed.

Keeping his distance, Malcolm studied the pair, searching for any telltale sign of which was corrupted. The man was built like a linebacker, muscled arms bulging from his sleeves. But the strength of the host rarely correlated with the demon's. The petite woman on his arm could be it just as easily. Instead of size, Malcolm watched their motions. She moved with a dancer's grace, fluid and quick. The man walked tall, confident, his shoulders back. It told him nothing.

They turned right at Elysian Fields. The woman's arm slid down and took the man's hand. Malcolm held back, watching from the shadows. Once they were two blocks ahead, he braved following down the well-lit street. The few pedestrians offered little cover. One paused as the couple passed, turning back for a final look. Then the next did the same.

Charmed
, Malcolm thought. The demon's power had caught their interest even with only a passing glance. Vampire? Succubi? Malcolm hadn't seen their faces. Maybe the demon's eyes would betray it.

They crossed at Chartress and continued down the narrow street, walled with tiny houses. Unzipping the top of Hounacier's bag, Malcolm positioned it under his arm, hoping it didn't look too obvious. He remained at a distance, allowing his new sight to pierce the shadows. The demon and its companion kept their lazy pace, never slowing or looking back. The homes gave way to shitty buildings. Shops and offices, most of them abandoned. No one else was on the streets. Beyond a railroad track, brick and steel warehouses, crusted with graffiti, loomed silent and dark. Malcolm picked up his pace lest he lose them in the industrial maze.

Headlights turned onto the road ahead, killing Malcolm's night vision. The sedan's engine roared. Malcolm averted his eyes as it neared, rap blasting from the open windows. The bass' boom hit his chest as it rolled past.

Malcolm looked up again and froze. The couple was gone.

Pulse thumping, he scanned the streets. Tailing a demon was dangerous. Losing one even more so. Had it seen him? Was it now stalking him, alone, on a dark, empty street?

Where's the human?
he wondered, fighting back paranoia.
If it saw me and fled, where did its companion go?
No demon could transform itself in the time he'd looked away. Morphing bone and musculature took a few seconds to complete, as did sprouting fur and horns. The companion would have reacted, run, or screamed.
Unless they were a familiar.

He looked back. The street was empty. Malcolm unzipped his backpack and removed the sawed-off. Holding it against his side, he cautiously approached where he'd last seen them.

A damp breeze rustled his hair. He passed a parking lot, walled behind chain link. A scrawny calico watched him from the shadow beneath a van. Malcolm came to the brick warehouse where the demon had last been. White, rust-stained bars covered the windows. Keeping an eye on the roof, he passed the building to see a litter-strewn field to the side. The demon and its companion where nowhere to be seen.

Two more warehouses stood beside his, one brick, the other blue sheet metal. Beyond them, he heard the chugging of a ship making its way up the Mississippi, invisible behind an earthen berm. Malcolm swallowed, squeezed the shotgun's grip, and slowly made his way around the building, careful to stay quiet on the broken seashell gravel. He peeked down the alley between the first two buildings and froze.

The bald man stood thirty feet away, his back against the metal wall. The woman knelt before him, naked, her head slowly bobbing before his crotch. Enormous, caramel-colored wings spread open from her back. Succubus!

Unsheathing Hounacier, Malcolm let the oxygen bag fall from his shoulder. He stepped out, clutching the machete and the sawed-off. The gun could hurt her enough to prevent her flying away, but he couldn't risk injuring her victim.

Gravel crunched beneath his feet.

The man looked up, seeing Malcolm across the alley. His lips curled into a wicked smile.

The succubus pulled back, and Malcolm's eyes widened. A grotesquely huge cock slid from the demon's throat. He saw now that the man, too, was naked. No discarded clothes littered the alley. The chiseled, ebon man wasn't a victim. He was an incubus. His clothes, like his lover's, were nothing more than glamoured illusion.

The succubus moved to stand. Malcolm raised the sawed-off and fired. Blood exploded from her arm, and amethyst shot peppered her wings. The incubus whipped his arm around her, pushing her aside as he charged. Malcolm fired the second barrel, taking it in the chest.

The demon roared. Unfazed, it hurtled toward him like a rampaging rhino. Malcolm dropped the smoking Remington and brought his palm up. The tattooed lid barely parted before the demon was on him. Malcolm lurched to the side, swinging Hounacier as he spun. The blade scratched the Incubus' back.

The beast turned, blood pouring from its open pectorals and onto the white gravel. Backing away, Malcolm brought his palm up. The incubus' eyes narrowed, but it stood firm.

Leather wings rustled. The scarab moved. Malcolm wheeled as the succubus sailed toward him, claws splayed. He aimed his warding palm at her, blasting her in its power. She shrieked and fell back as if hitting a wall. Seizing the opening, the incubus charged.

Malcolm ducked the beefy fist and it smashed through the metal wall behind him. He tried to dive, but the demon's knee slammed into his face with a sickly crack. Blood exploded from Malcolm's nose. Blinded with pain, Malcolm thrust Hounacier upward. He felt her hit. The incubus bellowed and leaped back, wrenching the machete from Malcolm's sweat-slicked grip.

Fighting to stay conscious, Malcolm scrambled to his feet. The incubus pulled at the blade jutting up though its belly. Weaponless, Malcolm stepped back. Outrunning them was impossible. He eyed the discarded shotgun. Even if he could reach it, the shells were in his bag.

Snarling, the incubus kicked the Remington, spraying gravel. Malcolm jerked to the side, the gun barely missing him before it sailed out into the darkness. The incubus charged again. Malcolm dove toward it. As he hit the ground, he grabbed Hounacier's handle and yanked. The demon's foot slammed into his ribs like a sledge. It stumbled over him, falling to its knees.

The succubus shrieked toward him. Malcolm rolled to his feet, grunting as he stood. He swiped the blade, but she flapped backward, buffeting Malcolm with a hard gust. The incubus staggered to its feet and turned. Malcolm lunged, spun, and hacked. Blood sprayed across the alley, igniting mid-air in purple-red fire. The incubus crumpled, its nearly severed head lolling to the side.

The succubus wailed, high and shrill. Clutching his side, Malcolm took a step toward her, fiery blood dripping from his blade. She hissed and then flew up into the night.

Watching her, Malcolm let out a breath and allowed his body to slump. Demon fire flickered off the alley walls, bathing them in crimson violet. He spat blood and touched his nose, wincing. Broken. He swabbed his blood and sweat-streaked face and wiped it on his already ruined shirt. Blood continued streaming down across his lips.

"Christ," he panted, his ribs aching with each breath. Someone had to have heard the gunshots. Police were notoriously slow, but he couldn't risk it. Malcolm eyed the dead demon, encased in ghostly fire. A moth fluttered around it.
Fucking reckless
, he scolded to himself. His own DNA was splattered on the ground and the corpse's knee. He looked around, hoping for a faucet, something to wash away the blood.

Movement caught his eye. Far across the empty field, hidden in the shadows but still visible to Malcolm's enhanced sight, two figures stood watching him. Shorty and Cornrows.

Cornrows smiled then slapped his companion on the side. The men raced away.

Fuck!
Malcolm looked back at the corpse.
No time.
He limped from the alley, grabbed Hounacier's bag, and fled.

Chapter Eight

A piercing screech jerked Malcolm from a restless sleep. Hand still resting on Hounacier, he glared at the alarm clock. 6:30. Grimacing in pain, he stretched his arm and turned it off.

Malcolm was pretty certain the incubus had fractured at least one of his ribs. The whole side stung with every movement. Broken or not, doctors wouldn't be able to do anything about that, and walking into a hospital just after an alley decapitation wouldn't have been a good idea. Still, Malcolm sure wished he had something for the pain. What few meds he'd had were given to Orlovski for the drive.

Gingerly, he crawled from the bed and checked his phone. Allan hadn't messaged. Hopefully a good sign. Not bothering to turn on the light, Malcolm shuffled to the bathroom.

A pathetic sight greeted him in the mirror. White gauze encased his nose, a rust-brown spot along the bridge, framed by a purplish pair of black eyes. The bleeding had finally stopped around 2:00. The dark bruise along his side had spread to maybe six inches across. Tiny nicks and gravel scratches marred his back and knees.

You deserve this
, he thought.
Dumb fucking move
. Malcolm had lectured novice hunters countless times never to do the exact thing he'd done. New Orleans was a demon well. No Valducan was to ever hunt here alone. He was lucky to be alive. Hounacier was too important. If he'd died… Malcolm shook his head.
No excuse.

Drawing a breath, he carefully peeled the tape back to inspect the damage. The swelling had gone down some, and the cut across his bridge wasn't as bad as he'd thought. Still, it would be a while before he didn't look like he'd gotten his ass beaten.
Should have seen the other guy.

The shower was a welcome refresher despite its lack of pressure. He stood trancelike, letting the water hit his shoulders and run down his back while he replayed the previous night.

"All right," Allan had said over the phone. "We have one headless corpse, two witnesses, possible DNA, a pissed succubus, and a werebeast somewhere about?"

Malcolm dabbed the bleeding cut. "Definite DNA." The two wads of toilet paper screwed up his nostrils made his voice nasally. "There was no time to sanitize the site. Also fingerprints on the gun. Didn't have time to search for it either." Losing Ulises' sawed-off pissed him off as much as everything else. If only those two assholes hadn't seen him.

The Englishman's groan echoed through the cell's speakerphone. "You sure leaving town isn't an option?"

"Not yet," Malcolm said, still fighting the seeping wound. "There's too much at stake. The werebeast knows about the mask."

"Mal, you might need to collect that mask. You know how dangerous it is. And how valuable."

"I'm not stealing it from them," he growled. "And if I did, nothing could stop that beast from coming in there and killing everyone. Besides," Malcolm added. "I need to find out where in the hell Ulises got that thing. What if there are more?"

"Mal…you were ambushed by two succubi. You're in danger."

"One of them is gone. They won't try that again." Malcolm hated lying about how he'd encountered the two demons, but it was better than the truth. Not that Allan wouldn't have understood. It was just too hard to admit his own stupidity out loud.

"But that succubus could move to a male body and come back," Allan said.

"I'm not leaving, Allan," he said flatly.

Silence. Eventually, Allan spoke again, his tone all business. Cold. "All right, then, damage control. No cameras at the yard?"

"No."

"Are you sure? It was dark."

"There were no cameras," Malcolm said. "I'd have seen them."

"Clothes? Shoes?"

Malcolm glanced toward the lumpy bag beside the toilet. Pink smears shone through the white plastic. He'd liked those shoes. "Bagged. I'll dump them once we're off the phone."

"Change hotels?"

"Same thing."

"I'll start now," Allan said. "Uwe's on assignment for the next several days, and my hacking is dreadful. But I'll see what I can dig up, find out what police have."

"Thanks."

"Mal," Allan said, voice tinged with apprehension, "are you sure you don't want to report this to the Masters? It's not like you."

"I will. Just not yet. You know how Schmidt and Sonu are."

Allan snorted.

"Just buy me a couple days."

"I'll do what I can. Just…don't make me regret it."

"Thanks, brother. I owe you." Malcolmhad tapped the phone, ending the call. "I owe you a lot."

The pipes in the wall groaned, and water belched suddenly from the showerhead. Missing his old, shitty hotel, Malcolm finished his shower.

It was 7:00 when he stepped out of the bathroom, a fresh bandage on his nose and a film of AJ's tattoo antibiotic cream on his more serious cuts. He wrestled a strangely narrow ironing board from the closet and flipped on the iron. As it warmed, he fished the dress clothes from his hastily-packed bag and tossed them onto the bed.

Shorty and Cornrows might not have seen the whole fight, might have missed the succubus, but they definitely saw Malcolm above a corpse sheathed in demon-fire. None of the suspects in Duplessis' file matched their appearances. If they weren't linked to Ulises' murder, then they were following him for another reason. It was time to lay the cards on the table and visit their suspected employer.

#

A pair of dueling mockingbirds chirped furiously back and forth in the early morning. From the shade of their tree, Malcolm watched well-dressed worshipers entering the almost glowing white church across the street. Aside from the main entrance, framed by an old man and a chunky teen serving as greeters, Saints of Light Church had smaller doors on either side. Malcolm had taken position near the packed, gravel parking lot, surveying that side door and the front. From that position, he could also watch the cinderblock and metal building behind it, which looked like a school gymnasium but white with dark, wooden doors. He felt odd just standing there, half-hidden behind a parked pickup. If he'd had a car, he could watch from inside. Or if he was smoking a cigarette, maybe he wouldn't look as strange. However, Malcolm didn't smoke, and he didn't have any cigarettes to pretend that he did.

Black eyes hidden behind sunglasses, he searched for familiar faces. By all accounts, nothing looked unusual among the churchgoers. Maybe there was a bit more white in their clothes and the women's scarves than at other churches, but it wasn't overly obvious. Most people would never guess it was a voodoo congregation. It was as inviting and warm as any Christian church.

Traffic through the doors slowed to a trickle, and Malcolm checked his watch. 8:57. Adjusting his collar, he strolled across the street.

The old black man was closing the entrance but smiled broadly when Malcolm started up the five concrete steps. "Welcome," he said, offering a folded paper. His gaze locked onto the white bandage across Malcolm's nose then was politely averted. "Beautiful morning."

"It is." Malcolm accepted the program, his palm down to conceal the tattoo.

"We're just about to start. Have a seat, brother."

Malcolm stepped inside, removing his glasses. Low murmurs filled the cozy chapel. Several fans hung from the vaulted ceiling, spinning lazily. Sunlight shone through the three colorful windows on the left side, each painted to look like stained glass. They appeared almost like Catholic saints, though a few differences, such as the yams and avocado in Saint Isidore's bounty, revealed them as the loa they truly represented. Malcolm slid into one of the rear pews, setting Hounacier's bag beside him. He scanned the crowd, hoping to see either Shorty or Cornrows.

A minute later, voodoo houngan and real-estate agent Earl Warren stepped up to the front, draped in vestments reminiscent of an Episcopal minister. Earl raised his hand, and the congregation rose. Leading songs and prayer, Earl preached with a passion and charisma most priests could only envy. From the back, Malcolm joined the song and prayers while still scanning the audience.

As the service continued, he grew more and more impressed at what Earl had accomplished. Not only was his flock meeting in a well-made and modern building, they were by far the most diverse group of voodoo practitioners he'd ever witnessed both financially and racially. Earl's dream of bringing a legitimacy to voodoo was well on its way to becoming a reality.

And that's what made him dangerous.

For twenty years, Earl had fought, campaigned, and even risked his life to pull his religion out from the shadows of superstition and racial hatred. He'd combated gang wars, homelessness, drug abuse, and domestic violence, all while preaching his faith. People like Ulises and Malcolm represented the darkness and sinister underbelly that, in Earl's mind, demeaned everything he stood for. Earl would die for his dream. Would he kill for it?

Today's sermon discussed the importance of family. Earl had only begun when his eyes met Malcolm's in the audience. A flash of concern, maybe surprise, then the houngan smiled. His gaze returned to Malcolm several times during the remainder of the service. Malcolm watched for any subtle signs of concern or warning signals the priest might relay to anyone in the room, but Earl didn't seem the least concerned at all. His church was a sanctuary. Reputations on both sides had to be maintained, and Earl knew as well as Malcolm, that they were both safe here. At least for now.

After two more songs and a closing prayer, the service disbanded. Earl stood at the main doors, chatting and saying farewells. Malcolm remained seated as worshipers shuffled past. Some glanced his way. Most fixated on the bandage and black eyes, but a few looked at Malcolm himself. Curious. Fearful. One plump woman pulled her boy closer to her side as she saw the bokor. Malcolm wondered what all they'd heard about him. Surely, Earl had warned them. Ulises would have been honored to have such looks. The old man had reveled in his mystique.

Earl gave a small nod as the last of the congregation finally left. He closed the door and returned to the altar, robes swishing. "That's all right, Cedric," he told a young teen extinguishing candles with a long douter. "I'll take care of that. Go on to class."

"Thank you, sir," Cedric said, handing Earl the cone-tipped rod. He tugged at his black tie and hurried through a side door.

The priest stepped onto the platform and snuffed a yellow taper. "Happy you came, Malcolm." He extinguished another and turned. "Pleasant surprise to see you there. Ulises never visited."

"I love what you've done here," Malcolm said, slipping out of the pew. He stifled a grunt as his ribs protested the movement. "Impressive."

"Thank you." Earl shook his head. "You look like shit."

Malcolm laughed, winced. "Rough night."

"You okay?"

"I'm fine."

Earl set the douter in a corner and brushed an unseen blemish off his robes. "I heard there was a murder down in Bywater last night. Man got his head cut off."

"Really?"

The houngan nodded sadly. "Burned him up in a dumpster," he added, gaze probing.

Malcolm paused. "I can honestly say I don't know anything about that." He searched Earl's face for any sign he knew more than he'd said. Nothing.

"Probably drugs. Lord knows." He tapped his nose. "So you goin' to tell me about this?"

"I had a momentary lapse in judgment."

Earl's lip twitched like he was going to say more, but he just shook his head. "So what brings you here, Malcolm?"

"A pair of men have been following me since Friday. I wanted to know if they're yours."

"Mine?" Earl's nostrils flared, insult mixed with confusion.

"Yeah. Black. One's tall, cornrows. The other is short, square little face."

"I don't know anything about this. Are they who did this to you?"

Malcolm shook his head.

"Why would you think I sent them?" he asked slowly.

"You had some strong words back at Paula's shop. Few hours later, those men started following me."

Earl straightened, chest rising. "That's not how I work, Malcolm. Now, I'm not gonna lie; I have asked about you. It's only fair. But I haven't sent anyone to follow you."

Malcolm studied the priest's eyes. If he was lying, he was good, but Malcolm had no doubt the businessman was superb.

"You should tell the police about this."

"No," Malcolm said. "I'll find out who they are."

Earl's brow arched. "And how do you intend on doing that?"

"Just talk to them. Say hello, find out who sent them?"

"Mal, if these men are dangerous, if they're related to Ulises' murder…"

"I can take care of myself," Malcolm assured.

"I know you can do that. I have ears, and I knew Ulises. But this is a job for the
police
, not you." He clasped his hands before him and squeezed. "I know what Ulises did. And he took care of a lot of bad people, troubled people. But demons, monsters?" He looked around, then whispered, "He
murdered
those people. You know better than that. That talk scares folks. Zombies and demons and all that Hollywood trash. I turned a blind eye once, but
never
again. I so much as suspect you hurtin' anybody, I swear you will go to prison."