Hounacier (Valducan Book 2) (17 page)

Chapter Twelve

"Oh, God," Errol blubbered. His silver-bound hands pressed Issach's red-soaked shirt against his stomach. "I don't wanna die." Passing lights slid across the bloodied white leather seats as Quentin sped down the highway.

The overpowering reek of the open gut wound made Malcolm's eyes tear. He crouched in the back of the SUV's storage area, clutching Hounacier, ready to strike either of the prisoners before him if they tried anything. Sammy and Issach were crammed awkwardly on either side, masks ready. Sitting closer to Errol, Sammy gulped, looking like he was about to throw up.

"I don't wanna die. I don't wanna die," Errol sobbed.

"You're gonna be okay," Issach mumbled, not looking at him.

Malcolm clenched his jaw. This was his fault. Errol was under his command, and now, the demon had him. Even if Atabei could exorcise it, Errol might still die.

"I'm…thirsty," Errol panted.

"Be quiet," Malcolm growled.

"It hurts," Errol cried.

"I know. But you're just losing blood by talking. Shut up."

A long, weak whine resonated from Errol's closed mouth. At least he'd stopped talking. Every word, every plea, only cemented Malcolm's guilt. How many people were going to die under him? Their dead faces flashed through his mind. Nick. Erika. Kazuo. So many now gone. He'd failed them.
Stop. Focus, damn it.
Errol couldn't die too.

Tires squealed as Quentin slung the SUV off the highway and turned onto the dirt road past the trailer park. The vehicle trembled and shook, hurtling down the dark tunnel of woods.

"Almost there," Quentin said into his radio, his voice coming though the bud in Malcolm's ear.

"We're ready for you," Atabei responded.

"I'm dying," Errol moaned to no one in particular.

"Quiet," Malcolm growled. "You're going to be fine."

Shane Gruss, who hadn't spoken or moved since they caught him, turned his head. He looked at Malcolm from the corner of his eye.

Malcolm tensed. "Head down."

"I know where we going," Shane said, his lips barely moving. "I know because he knows." The demon nodded toward Errol.

"Head
down
," Malcolm repeated, moving the blade into the demon's line of sight. His spine tightened. The demon hadn't manifested but was talking. They weren't supposed to do that.

"He's not going to be okay." Shane looked back down toward his lap. "Neither are you."

The rumbling SUV slowed and turned into the primitive drive. A bald man by the open gate waved them on. The vehicle bounced down the narrow path. Light flickered through the trees ahead. The woods opened up into the field. Dozens of oil torches surrounded the shipping containers, bathing them in orange fire. Silhouettes hurried out, and the SUV slid to a stop. Bade and Sogbo jumped against their chains, their barks filling the silence.

"All right," Malcolm said as they opened the doors. "Let's get them to the pen." He crawled out of the back and around to where they were pulling the prisoners out the side door.

"Help me," Quentin said, trying to gently pull Errol out. Two men came in around him and carried the injured man away, his blood staining their pristine, white garments.

Atabei watched Errol, eyes tense in horror and worry. "We need to do this now! Get the collars."

"Are we ready?" Malcolm asked.

"Everything is as you said."

He eyed the two concentric bands of white powder nearly filling the container ring, broken by only a small gap. Three steel rings, the kind used to tie a dog in a yard, were screwed into the ground on one side of the central post. A trio of ropes ran from outside the circle, each threading through a different steel ring and ending in a metal clip. Summoning the loa would take too long. They weren't necessary for his part, and Atabei had said she didn't need them for hers. Still, tradition demanded that they call them.

Errol's pained wail sent birds fluttering from the darkened trees.

Malcolm swallowed. No time for tradition. "All right. We need a fourth ring."

"Karri," Atabei snapped to a mulatto woman, her thick curls spilling out beneath a white scarf. "Set a new ring."

"We don't have any more."

"Make one. Check with Peewee."

The woman hurried off.

"What else?" Atabei asked.

"We'll need a rope for him. Just like the others. Once this is done, we need to get him to a hospital."

Atabei nodded. "Take a moment to gather yourself while we prepare."

She walked away, and Malcolm drew a long breath. He held it, trying to calm his pounding heart. Slowly, he released it and drew another.
Keep it together. Keep it together. He's not going to die.

Malcolm wished he believed that. He needed to. Blowing it out, Malcolm sheathed Hounacier then peeled off his sweaty shirt. He dabbed his face and tossed the crumpled shirt onto the Lexus' hood. "Ready, baby?" he asked aloud, drawing the machete. He kissed the blade and marched into the fire-lit ring.

Despite Atabei's insistence that it wasn't necessary, Malcolm demanded cleansing by a live chicken before anyone entered the circle. She wasn't as priestly as he'd imagined, but Malcolm was, and by God, he was going to have something holy about this. No way was Malcolm locking himself inside a ring with a demon and his sins and negative energies still coating him.

Bitterly, she agreed.

Once cleansed, he took the fluttering bird by the ankles and rubbed it over Atabei, Quentin, Issach, then Peewee, the broad-shouldered bald man who had opened the gate. That complete, he entered the ring, the annoyed bird still twisting against his hold. Oily citronella smoke from the near fifty torches filled the air. A faint hint of other herbs, including sage, accented the lemony smell.

He circled the central post, stopping at each cardinal point and holding the sin-laden chicken before it. On the fourth pass, he knelt. "I offer this to you. Protect us."

Malcolm drew Hounacier and cut the bird's head free with a quick chop. It fluttered and writhed, blood squirting from the tiny hole ringed in brown feathers. He stood and rubbed as much blood as he could onto the post before the animal went limp. Malcolm laid it as the base, just below a long-faced carving, and turned back toward the circle's opening.

Slowly, he walked, his neck and shoulders prickling with that all-too-familiar tingle. He was a bokor. The groom. Husband, father, and child to the nameless angel that was Hounacier. Other holy weapons had their gifts, but hers was power. He reached the edge and thrust the machete high.

A drum thumped.

Issach and Peewee stepped through, escorting young Leigh Ann into the ring. A thick choke chain encircled her neck, just above the silver collar. She looked at Malcolm. Terrified tears framed her pleading eyes. Backing slowly, Malcolm led them to the first staked ring. The two men took the rope that ran through the ring and clipped it to the long end of the chain.

Peewee drew a screwdriver from his pocket and removed the silver collar's locking pin. It was like pulling the pin from a demonic grenade. The werewolf could now take form. If it did, the choke chain leash was all that held it. The men guided Leigh Ann to the ground, face-up, her head toward the central post. Outside the ring, Sammy pulled the rope, taking out the slack. The chain rattled through the steel ring as it tightened.

Once complete, Peewee and Issach left the ring and fetched the next prisoner, Gary. The lone drum sounded again as he came inside. His escorts led him to the second rope and attached it to his chromed choke chain before removing the silver hoop. Gary's eyes never left Hounacier's glinting blade. They laid him down beside Leigh Ann. Sadie, the chubby woman from the house, pulled the rope taut.

Next came Shane Gruss, entering with an ominous drumbeat. Peewee and Issach led him at arm's length, obviously more afraid than they had been with the others. Issach snapped him in then fidgeted with Quentin's knot for a full two minutes before finally unwrapping the slender, silver chain. A burly man, who looked like he might have been a professional fullback fifteen years ago, pulled the rope as they lowered Shane to his back, head facing the post.

Finally, they carried Errol in on a crude stretcher. Malcolm clenched his jaw, struggling to keep the stoic face. Blood soaked the tight-wrapped cloth around Errol's waist. He rolled his head toward Malcolm, eyes glassy and pained, breath shallow.

Lacking a fourth choke chain, Issach looped the rope directly around Errol's neck. It ran through a crude arch of bent rebar pounded into the ground like a croquet hoop. For an instant, Errol's eyes snapped to attention. A devilish smile curled his lips then was gone.

Just keep fucking with me, asshole
, Malcolm thought, anger rising. In taking Errol, it had taken his knowledge. It knew what it was in for. Death or eternity in a silver prison.
We'll see how you're smiling then.

The two men turned to Malcolm. He nodded, and they left. They took position on either side, just outside the ring, each holding an obsidian mask shrouded beneath a crimson cloth.

The drum sounded again, and Quentin stepped into the ring, carrying a wood platter. A long, silver mask, vaguely resembling a wolf's head, rested atop it. The lights of the torches shimmered off its hammered surface. He skirted the inner edge of the ring until reaching the opposite end behind Malcolm.

Another drum beat. Atabei entered. She carried a small bowl in one hand. She knelt, dipped her fingers into it, and drew a pair of lines, sealing the circle. Setting the bowl down, she stood and followed the inner edge and stopping at the northernmost side.

The drum thumped again, followed by another. Hounacier still raised, Malcolm backed away from the four prisoners, the slow drum marking each step. He stopped beside Quentin.

Malcolm gave a loud whoop, and the drums erupted into a rapid tempo. Holding Hounacier out, flat across his open palm, Malcolm unleashed a streaming chant. "Ohma sarri ayi ah. Oonu karri na. Ohga narrifischtoo. Tikki ahsa ah."

He didn't know the words he spoke; they simply channeled through him. He'd never heard anyone but himself and Ulises speak the musical language until last year when Tiamat's followers called their demonic goddess into this world. Matt had called it the First Tongue, the language of God.

His voice rising, Malcolm aimed the flat of the blade at Leigh Ann. "Ohma sarri ayi ah. Oonu karri na! Ohga narrifischtoo. Tikki ahsa ah!"

Malcolm moved his chant to Gary, straining his bound neck to watch, eyes wide. "Ohma sarri ayi ah. Oonu karri na! Ohga narrifischtoo. Tikki ahsa ah!"

The verse complete, Malcolm moved to Shane and then Errol before starting back again with Leigh Ann, his voice rising.

"Ohma sarri ayi ah! Oonu karri na! Ohga narrifischtoo! Tikki ahsa ah!"

His hair rustled as if in a breeze, but the humid, smoke-filled air didn't move. The chanting grew faster, and the drums sped to keep pace. The second sequence complete, Malcolm stamped his foot and began again. Sogbo and Bade started howling.

"Ohma sarri ayi ah! Oonu karri na!" A sudden tingle vibrated up his body, through his bones, and into his hands. Hounacier's blade warmed against his palm. "Ohga narrifischtoo! Tikki ahsa ah!" The little girl trembled at the last words before Malcolm moved to Gary. Like Leigh Ann, Gary spasmed just as Malcolm ended the sequence and started on Shane.

Hair and clothing flapped in the ghostly wind as Malcolm began the fourth pass, his voice a scream. Hounacier vibrated against his skin like a hot guitar string, her unseen power arcing to the prisoners. Leigh Ann shrieked and shook, her high voice undulating with the tremors. Gary's legs shook side to side in an impossible blur, kicking up a cloud of dust. Shane wailed, his head pistoning back into the ground like a pneumatic hammer. Fresh blood trickled down Errol's legs as his back arched under the invisible bolt's fury.

"Ohma sarri ayi ah!" Leigh Ann's hands shook, seeming to change shape in the blur. "Oonu karri na!" Ohga narrifischtoo! Tikki ahsa ah!"

A howl exploded from Gary's mouth as his teeth stretched out from his peeling lips. Pimpling hairs rolled up his shaking body.

Almost there.
He switched focus to Shane.

The white man's skin grayed as rolling fur spread out from his chest. His legs lengthened, forming long-toed paws.

The sequence complete, Malcolm moved to Errol. The little man bounced and writhed. His face lengthened, and an inhuman roar burst from blackening lips. Blood exploded out from the bandage, squirting across the ground and onto Shane beside him. Someone in the audience screamed. The two dogs yelped and cried. Shifting organs hemorrhaged and squeezed though the red-stained bandage and out onto the ground.

Shit!

The three prisoners all erupted in cackling laugher as Errol fell still.

You son of a bitch!
He moved back to Leigh Ann, rage fueling his chants. Her filthy shorts split open as canine thighs swelled beneath then. A black, wormlike tail slithered out from between her legs and sprouted fur. Furiously, Malcolm focused the power harder on her. Spittle flew from his lips as he roared the streaming mantra, but the demon refused to take hold.