Hounacier (Valducan Book 2) (15 page)

"I'm sorry," he muttered. Malcolm stood and walked out, trying to ignore her sobs.

"Do you understand why I need you?" Atabei asked as the door squeaked shut behind him.

Malcolm closed his eyes. As horrible as keeping them was, letting them live endangered even more lives. They were innocent, victims of the demon inside. Once it was bound or dead, their souls would be free. Until then, they were damned. He turned to the priestess. "Are those collars solid silver?"

"Yes."

"Even the hinge pins? If those things transform, the silver will hold, but even a hardened, steel pin will snap."

She nodded. "Ulises was very specific about that."

"Good." If the werewolf did try to take one, the collar would strangle it, maybe even break its expanding neck. "You can't draw it out of them? The demon?"

"No. It has to be formed for that." She gazed off in the woods, her eyed focused on nothing in particular. "The ghouls had only one form. They were either monsters or they weren't. Werewolf that can hide in a human it's possessing. Even if you caught every single person it had bound, it could still hide." She turned back to him. "I need it to manifest, become
real
. Then, I can draw it out."

"I see," he grumbled, disappointed. Holy weapons worked the same way.

"We have a wolf caged in one of the other boxes. Sent down from Montana," Atabei said. "Once I can draw the spirit out, I'll put it in there. Then, you can kill it."

"Can you put it in a mask instead?"

"A silver one. Yes." Atabei cocked her head. "So will you help me? Help them?"

"And you're sure the same monster bit them both?"

"Yes."

If the demon was smart it, would run. It could have been watching through those prisoners' eyes. Might be listening to them right now. But New Orleans' gravity was strong. It was likely trapped. Cornered. No telling what it might do. Malcolm nodded. "I want the mask once we're done."

"I will agree to that."

"We still need to find a third victim," Malcolm said. "And we need to be fast."

She smiled, revealing those tiny little teeth. "I know where to find him."

Chapter Eleven

Quentin pulled the Lexus into a tight space outside of Alpuente's Antiques.

"Thanks." Malcolm picked up Hounacier's bag and opened the door.

Atabei turned to face him. "Are you sure you don't want us to wait?"

Malcolm shook his head. "No. I have a few things I need to do. I'll meet you at your house at…" He glanced at the green, dash-mounted clock. 4:43. "Seven o' clock."

Atabei's mouth tightened into a momentary frown. "I will let my people know. Call me or Errol if you need anything."

"I will. Just make sure the site is prepared for when we arrive. We won't have much time once I catch it. If it has a fourth body in the area, it might jump to that one and attack us or one of its captured victims so that we no longer have three."

"Don't worry about that," she said. "If it knew where its victims were, it would have attacked us by now. They don't know, so it doesn't know either. Just be careful. Don't let it see where you take it."

Malcolm nodded and stepped out. As he closed the door, he noticed Jim watching them through the shop's plate window. The priest's stony expression was the same one he'd given back when Malcolm and Tasha had broken up.

That's not good.

Jim was already by the door by the time Malcolm stepped inside, his enormous frame nearly filling the doorway. "Looks like you made a new friend."

Malcolm glanced back in time to see the pearly SUV drive away. "Yeah." The scarab tattoo itched under the ghoul mask's hateful gaze.

"Did you learn anything?"

"A lot." Malcolm stepped to the left, away from the mask's stare. He noticed Tasha near the far wall, opening a case, a pair of obvious tourists ogling the contents. Mister Alpuente sat behind the counter. A disapproving frown tugged at the old man's lips.

"Mal," Jim said. "You need to be careful with her."

"I'm figuring that out." He nodded toward the rear door. "Can we go upstairs?"

"Of course." Jim led him through the back and up the creaking stairs to his office. Opening the door, he offered Malcolm one of the leather chairs before taking his own. A fat, lemon-yellow candle burned in a glass jar atop Jim's altar, surrounded by silver coins and a fresh chicken's foot. He'd been praying for someone's protection.

"So what is it?" Jim asked, leaning forward over his desk.

"Atabei claims she made the demon mask," Malcolm said.

The huge priest snorted. "I'm sure she does. With Ulises gone, no one can say otherwise."

"I believe her. She has two more just like it."

Jim paused, his head cocking to the side a little. "Really? Two?"

"Yeah. She says she can make more and is willing to teach me how."

"Mal, be careful. You don't want to end up in that witch's debt."

"I'm not. She
needs
me."

Jim scratched his chin. "How's that?"

"She needs me to call the demon in. She can't do that on her own. My payment is a demon mask and getting to seeing her do it."

"Just be sure she sees that as an even trade," Jim said. "She has a reputation."

Malcolm thought about that, strumming his fingers on the armrest. He hadn't mentioned the little detail about hunting a werewolf down and keeping it prisoner somehow. The yellow candle came to mind. Probably best he didn't tell him. Jim was worried enough. "I want to ask you a favor. Big one."

"Anything."

He plucked a pen from an upright desk stand and drew one of Jim's business cards from a little wooden holder. "If you don't hear from me by noon tomorrow." Malcolm wrote an email address on the back of the card and slid it across to Jim. "Send a message here. Tell them everything."

Jim took the card and studied it. "This is your Order?"

"Yes." He stabbed the pen back into its brass sheath.

"If you're giving me this, you're worried. What's going on, Mal?"

"Just playing it safe."

Jim shook his head. He set the card down and tapped it with his finger like some stage magician about to perform a trick. "If you're so concerned, why are you going?"

"The Order has been searching for the secret of making those masks for over a century. This could be huge. It could save lives."

"But tonight? Why not wait for your friend?"

"I have to."

"Why?"

"Because people will die if I don't."

The big priest nodded and leaned back. "I see."

"Just don't worry about me," Malcolm said.

Jim smiled. "I can't ever promise you that."

#

Long shadows stretched across the street by the time Malcolm made it back to Atabei's house. The sun would be down in an hour. Malcolm used to hate hunting at night. Populated areas made it necessary. But now, with his newest gift, he looked forward to it. The three-strand seashell necklace hung from his neck, its bone crescent bouncing against his chest as he hurried up the front steps.

No dogs barked when he knocked.

Errol opened the door almost instantly. No telling how long he'd been standing there waiting. "Ready, Doctor?"

"Did you get the things I asked for?"

Errol smiled broadly. His yellowed teeth seemed too large for his head. "Sho."

Malcolm stepped inside. "Atabei here?"

"Left an hour ago," Errol said, closing the door. "Meet us there."

He led Malcolm into the living room, where Quentin sat stooped over the table, winding silver chain from a clear, plastic spool onto a six-inch dowel rod. The spool looked like the kind found at a mall shop that also sold gaudy medallions like the diamond-encrusted gold cross hanging from the big man's neck. Two more rods rested beside it, each wrapped with what looked to be several feet of chain and ending in a silver ring. Also on the table were five Motorola radios, several empty battery packages, and Quentin's snub nose.

Malcolm picked up one of the rods, inspecting the chain. As he'd instructed, the links were fused shut, not butted. "Solid silver?"

"Yeah." Quentin picked up a pair of flat-nosed cutters and snipped the chain from the spool.

He flipped over the ring. Fleurs-de-lis lined the outer edge. Likely from the same jewelry place. A bulbous knot held it to the chain. Malcolm tugged it. "Looks good."

"Merci." Quentin reached into a shiny red paper bag by his feet and removed another ring.

Malcolm set the dowel down and picked up one of the burgundy and black radios. Cheap. Maybe a two-mile range in ideal conditions. They weren't encoded, so anyone on the same frequency could listen in.
Better than nothing.
"Who are the others for?"

"Atabei has one," Errol explained, his voice peppy. "Other two are for Sammy and Issach. They're already out there keepin' watch."

"And the masks?"

"Over there," Errol said, pointing to a cardboard box on a plush, white chair. Crumpled newspaper poked out of the open top. "Did you get the third one?"

"Jim Luison wouldn't let me have it," Malcolm lied. No way was he going to let Atabei have it. Not until she proved she could do what she claimed. He'd instructed Jim to lock it securely in place so no one could run in and steal it. Malcolm pulled the paper aside, revealing one of the obsidian ghouls. The scarab at his wrist wiggled under its sudden gaze. He picked it up and found its mate wrapped up beneath it. "We'll just have to do it with these two."

Errol let out a little grunt.

Malcolm turned. The little man's eyes were wider than normal. Quentin looked up at Malcolm as well, half-wrapped dowel in his hand.

"That worry you?" Malcolm asked.

Errol nodded. Quentin's flat-mouthed expression revealed his answer.

"Good," Malcolm said, his tone cold. "Because I'd be worried if you weren't. Overconfidence will kill you. We're about to put this monster in a corner and if you make one mistake, it'll rip you in half. Just do exactly what I say, and this will work. Get cocky, think that mask will keep it off you, and it'll be
your
corpse we're burning in a dumpster. Understood?"

They nodded.

"Good. Two masks will work."

While Quentin finished with the fifth and final chain-wrapped rod, Malcolm and Errol gathered their gear and carried it out the back to the SUV. A lush garden lined the northern side of Atabei's enormous back yard with a glass greenhouse on one end. The rest of the manicured grounds were meticulously laid out, all encircling a grassy ring at its heart, lined with chalky stones. A fifteen-foot tree trunk thrust straight up from the middle. Half-finished carvings decorated the pole, reminiscent of the one in the woods.

Once Quentin made it to the vehicle, Errol tapped his phone and pressed it to his ear. "Hey. He still there?" A pause. "Yeah. We're on our way. Let Issach know. A'ight?" He thumbed the screen and jammed the phone back into his pocket. "They're ready."

Quentin pushed the black remote hanging from the visor, and the gate opened. Malcolm patted Hounacier's bag reassuringly as they pulled onto the street.
Ready, baby?

Twenty minutes later, they pulled into an alley and slowed beside a white sedan. A baby-faced black man with round, wire-framed glasses sat in the driver's seat, arm outside the window, clutching a cigarette. He nodded, and Quentin pulled up behind him and parked.

"We're here." The big man killed the engine and stepped out.

Malcolm followed, backpack with the supplies over one shoulder, Hounacier's bag under his arm.

The driver came out of the sedan and bumped fists with Quentin then Errol.

"This here's Issach," Errol said with a little snap of his head.

Issach gave Malcolm a short nod.

"So what are we lookin' at?" Malcolm asked.

"He's in there," Issach said, pointing across the street with his chin. "Lives up on the third floor. Three forty-one."

Malcolm eyed the six-story apartment building. "Cypress," it read in bold, white letters. "Air Conditioned," beneath it.

"He's there now?" Malcolm asked. Taller buildings framed the apartment, their walls connected.

"Yeah. He left 'bout two hours ago. Went to the corner store. Came back." He removed a black-and-gold phone from his pocket and handed it over. "This is him. Name's Shane Gruss."

Malcolm smirked, seeing the spikey-haired man's picture on the screen, the image captured while he was standing in a checkout line.
Hello again, asshole.
He handed the phone back. "This the only entrance?"

Issach shook his head. "Sammy's coverin' the door in the back."

"Show me."

Leaving Quentin out front with a radio, Issach led Malcolm and Errol across the street and around to a parking lot behind the buildings, protected by a wrought-iron gate. One of the pointed, vertical bars had been broken free, allowing them to side-step though the gap. A skinny man with a lumpy afro and a neatly trimmed beard sat on a metal box near the building.

He looked up as they approached. "Hey, boys."

"Hey." Issach stabbed a thumb toward Malcolm. "This here's the man Mama Atabei told us 'bout. Malcolm."

The man hopped off his box and extended a hand. "Sammy. Real pleasure to meet you." A faint whiff of alcohol tinged his breath.

"Good to meet you," Malcolm said, shaking his hand. He nodded to the oversized malt energy drink resting on the box. Another can lay discarded in the narrow gap between it and the building. "Been drinking?"

Sammy shrugged. "Been a long day."

"Well, it's about to get a whole lot longer. You're done drinking for now. I need you sharp."

Sammy made a sour face, his head going back a little.

"I'm not fucking around," Malcolm snapped. "We're about to do something so damned dangerous it'll be like catching a rabid grizzly with kite string."

Sammy gave a little laugh.

"You think I'm fucking kidding?" Malcolm's eyes narrowed. "I've seen people better trained and better equipped than you guys get killed doing this, and I'll be damned if anyone's dying under me. Atabei said I'm in charge?"

Sammy nodded. "Y…yeah."

"Then do what I tell you. You don't, people die. Maybe you. Got it?"

"Yes, sir."

"Good." Malcolm drew a breath and nodded to the red brick building. "Now, what do you know about this guy?"

Sammy, seeming real happy at the change of subject, gestured up the flat wall. "He's the fifth and sixth windows up on the right, closer this way. Third floor." The dark windows were difficult to see this close to the building. On the bright side, it meant the demon wouldn't see them either.

"He have a car back here?"

Sammy nodded. "Blue one over there. One with two flat tires."

Malcolm's brow cocked. "You do that?"

"Yeah. When we got word you were comin'."

"Good job." Malcolm looked around, scanning the area. No cameras. No entrances but the one gate and the apartment itself. There was an alley beyond the fence on the far side of the lot, near a dumpster. It looked to go for two building lengths before splitting at a T-intersection, each headed to a different street. There was another broken-off pole there where people had obviously been cutting through, evident by the worn trail through the strip of weeds. He'd done raids in complexes before, but those were search and destroy jobs. Taking a prisoner, especially a possessed one, was going to be a hell of a lot harder.