Hounacier (Valducan Book 2) (19 page)

He continued on. Keisha's garden was as he'd last seen it. Chickens still sauntered around their caged coop. But there was no sign of Atabei or her followers. Once he'd circled past another of the creepy totems and almost to the next, Malcolm emerged from the woods. He crossed the open span to the nearest container and listened. Hearing nothing, he peeked around to the inside of the ring.

The circle was empty, the post and metal stakes exactly as he'd last seen. Unlit torches ringed the area. Errol's body was gone. Arcs of brown, dried blood splattered one wall of a powder blue container. Malcolm stepped out, searching the murder scene, the scene that he had perpetrated, but was unable to recall. Insects swarmed atop a red pool near the ring's edge, the blood so thick that it hadn't fully dried. He saw the stains where Errol and Shane had laid and the smeared trails from when they'd been moved, ending at tire tracks. Dread mounting, Malcolm crossed the smudged white ring and stopped above a small spackling of dried blood. The long drag marks from when he'd crawled to that vey spot and attempted to kill himself on Hounacier's blade were still there, partially hidden beneath newer footprints. One was an enormous paw, big as his hand.

What did I do?

The closest bloodstain that wasn't Errol's was just outside the ring. Malcolm approached it, noticing a glint on the ground. He picked up a nickel-sized chip of smooth, black glass, one side tapering to a keen edge. The ghoul mask. Peewee had dropped it. The drying splatters told what had come to poor Peewee. Injured, Hounacier inside it, the werewolf would have gone for the closest target. Atabei had been nearing the other mask at the time of the transformation. Peewee was unprotected. Others would have tried to save him. Maybe shot it. Issach would have moved forward, his own mask pushing the rampaging demon off the man. So the werewolf would have gone for the next target. Malcolm moved his gaze up to the blood-sprayed wall. Leigh Ann had been hiding there.

Malcolm approached the gruesome site, remembering the hair he'd thrown up. More blood stained the area, pooled and splattered. Bullet holes peppered the box's side. They'd kept firing while it attacked her. Judging by some of the splatter-lined holes, a few of them had hit. But where did it go after?

Malcolm looked left and right, seeing no other holes. He raised his eyes. More shots traced upward. Deep claw marks marred the roof lip where the beast had scrambled over. A wooden ladder on the far side of the container led to the top. Malcolm holstered the pistol and followed it up. He spotted the trail of sun-cooked drops along the roof running fifteen feet before going over the far side. From his vantage, Malcolm could see out over most of the clearing. With Atabei and her followers still possessing one mask, Hounacier, and silver bullets, the werewolf would have run. Malcolm scanned the grounds, not seeing any other blood pools. It had either dragged someone with it or found a new victim somewhere else in order to heal. Its spree had ended beneath that tree where Malcolm had woken, but what happened between the ring and the tree was still a mystery. How many more innocents had died from Malcolm's failure?

He shook his head. It was time to tell the Order. Jim needed to know. With one ghoul mask gone, the one in the shop was even more precious. Atabei had killed for Hounacier; killing for the mask wasn't a difficult leap especially now that the demon and the man who it possessed would be coming after her. Jim was in danger. Tasha was in danger. Malcolm needed to warn them. He needed to be stopped before he killed again.

Malcolm climbed back down and headed toward the car. The site was compromised. No telling what Atabei had done with the bodies, but she wouldn't be stupid enough to bury them here.

He'd just passed the container ring when he heard rapid scratching on metal followed by an animal's whine.

Remembering Atabei's Rottweilers, Malcolm drew the pistol and spun. The ring was empty.

It came again, something scraping one of the boxes.

Just keep walking
, Malcolm thought. Still, he moved toward it, gun ready.

He rounded a container, its once-yellow paint rust-stained to a dull, splotchy orange. Someone had removed the doors, replacing them with a welded rebar cage. A scrawny gray wolf paced back and forth before the metal gate. A cut length of water hose ran through the bars to a large and empty bowl. A blue plastic funnel capped the other end, held up with zip-ties. The box stank like a kennel, and Malcolm stifled a sneeze.

The animal stopped its pacing and looked at him with amber eyes. Tongue lolling, it rolled onto its back, exposing its belly.

Unsure what to do, Malcolm just stood there, nose itching, watching the animal roll side to side in total submission. Atabei had said she’d gotten a wolf before Malcolm had requested a mask instead. They'd left it here, cooking in a metal box. "You thirsty?"

The animal stopped rolling and just stared at him.

One of the other containers held water. He'd seen them using it the night before, but what good would it do? Atabei's people might not be back for days, maybe weeks. He considered the gun in his hand but quickly pushed that thought away. There wasn't any food he could see inside, and opening the gate on a hungry, wild animal probably wouldn't end well for either of them.

The wolf rolled onto its stomach. It extended its front paws and pressed its chin to the floor.

"You like chicken?" he asked, remembering the coop.

The animal whimpered.

He could fill the bowl then push one of the birds though the bars. While it was distracted, Malcolm could just open the latch and walk away. Then what? Let a wolf, an animal completely foreign to this area, just roam free? "This is a waste of time." He turned to walk away but stopped. This thing was a victim too. Atabei's victim.
Screw it.

Hand tight on the pistol, Malcolm reached up, twisted, and flipped the latch.

The wolf sat up onto its haunches.

"You be good. Stick to the bayou, and no one will bother you."

The animal cocked its head.

Leaving the door shut, Malcolm backed away. "You just stay in there until I'm gone, buddy."

The wolf didn't move.

Malcolm rounded the corner and sneezed. He heard the metal gat creak open, and he sneezed again then again. Paranoia of a hungry wolf on the loose rising, he wiped his eyes and hurried back to the car, glancing over his shoulder the entire way.
Jesus, that was stupid.

Something fell from his pocket when Malcolm fished out the car keys. Puzzled, he looked down, seeing the silver ring in the weeds. When had he taken it off? An icy chill ran up his spine. Could
it
have…?

No. It must have slipped off when I put the key in there.
Malcolm picked it up and shoved the ring on his middle finger, forcing it over the knuckle. No way would it fall off now.

The Taurus took two minutes to start. It just had to get him to the city. He managed the car around on the narrow road and headed back.

Atabei's declaration came to mind as he drove. She'd called him a murderer. Said he'd killed her husband. Herm…Hercule. That was it. He didn't remember any Hercule. Then again, he rarely knew the names of those he had killed. No…set free. He'd never murdered. Not until…not until last night. But Atabei had told him a demon killed her husband. So how…?

No.
Because
of a demon. She never said the demon killed him. He died
because
of it. After that, she'd learned how to transfer their essence, move them to an animal or other vessel. The demon hadn't killed him. It had possessed him.

He remembered her words. There were many funerals before Ulises came. Then only one. The last.

They'd killed her husband with Hounacier's blade. She'd spent years plotting revenge. Now, Ulises was dead, killed with a machete. Malcolm was damned, and Hounacier was hers. She'd coaxed their trust with masks and promises of power, and he'd fallen straight for it.

The Order needed to know. By his own code, he should die. The monster inside him had to be stopped. Atabei had to be stopped.

The car coughed and slowed. Malcolm pressed the gas. The needle revved, but the Taurus only slowed.
Fuck!

He steered the coasting vehicle to the shoulder of the road.
Please, God, not now.
Malcolm turned the car off. After a minute of cursing, he managed to get it restarted, but the car wouldn't go into gear. Malcolm rubbed his forehead. He was still a couple miles outside the city limits, maybe a dozen from Alpuente's. Pushing the frustration aside, he turned off the car, pulled on his ugly hat, and got out. It was only time before the demon took him again, and it was only time before a cop stopped to find him in a stolen piece of shit car and packing a stolen gun. He needed to get moving.

He walked, the sun beating down on him. There were no trees along the road and nothing to shade him. The oversized shoes rubbed with every step. The thought of popping out his thumb to ask for a lift came to mind, and if he wasn't a living time-bomb waiting to kill and eat, he would have. But being alone in a car with some Good Samaritan wasn't something he could do. Demons loved hitchhiking about as much as they loved picking up hitchhikers. No, he couldn't risk that. The urge only mounted as the blisters formed along his heels.

He passed a bank of graffiti-caked pay phones outside a gas station and considered calling Tasha or Jim for a lift. But being alone with them was just as bad as hitchhiking. He needed to get to the shop. The mask would protect them from him. After his warnings to Jim, Malcolm knew the priest wouldn't just bring it to him, not after Malcolm hadn't come home the night before. He'd told him to lock it up and not move it for anyone or anything. The big priest wouldn't unless he was one-hundred-percent sure it wasn't some trick of Atabei's.

Pinkish hues tinged the sky by the time he made it to a bus stop. Malcolm took the bench and waited. A busload of people would be safer than one-on-one in a car. Demons weren't that reckless. Ten minutes later, a flat-faced bus rolled up, and Malcolm got on. His sweat-slick skin goosebumped at the rush of air conditioning. A woman near the back fanned herself, evidently not appreciating the cool air as much as he did. The bus stank of body odor, and Malcolm wondered how bad he must smell. He slid into a narrow seat and blew out a relieved sigh as the bus began to move.

Malcolm watched the streets roll past, and new dread began to form. Atabei knew he was staying at Jim's. What if she had spies watching for him to return there? How many eyes did she have? He needed to be careful. Maybe approach slow, mingling with a crowd of tourists.

A sudden realization broke his thoughts. Malcolm looked down to see that he'd been fiddling with the silver ring and had pulled it off. Swallowing, he shoved it back onto his finger and closed his fist. He needed to get to Jim's fast.

The sun had set when the bus let him off three blocks from the shop. His fist clenched, Malcolm followed the streets, searching for any overly interested faces in the crowd. The nervous weight in his stomach continued to swell. Cold sweat broke out along the back of his neck. He hurried across the street, the fully-formed blisters stinging with each step.

Two more blocks.

His face grew hot, and the sudden feeling like he might throw up came down on him like a wave. A quartet of tourist women clutching neon green plastic glasses laughed at the mouth of an alley, all peering at a phone screen.

"Excuse me. Excuse me,'' he panted, pushing past them. The heavy weight in his stomach roiled and shifted. He continued down the narrow alley, not much wider than his shoulders.

Wait
, he thought. He hadn't chosen to come down here. He'd just done it. Malcolm watched himself turn into a small alcove mulched with cigarette butts and torn wrappers. The sick feeling receded, and Malcolm, not controlling his own body, lifted his clenched hand. A scream erupted deep inside him, unable to escape his unresponsive lips.

The silver ring was gone.

Malcolm felt himself smile as the walls of his mental self tore away like tissue, revealing a wide, open sea of memories far larger than anything he could grasp. His consciousness plunged beneath the sticky waves of other thoughts and emotions. They pulled him deep into hopeless darkness as Malcolm continued his inward scream.

"
Not yet
," a smooth, somehow familiar voice whispered through his mind. "
You're mine.
"

II

The stink of fish and assorted feces permeating the village curls Gulmet's nose. He wishes to leave it as soon as possible and return to Rajik, but first, he must interact with these disgusting humans. The supply of goats lasted far shorter than they'd anticipated. Rajik's hunger is insatiable. Gulmet had found a pair or travelers on the road and brought them home. They lasted two days. But there is too much risk in hunting humans while Rajik is unable to transform. If anyone were to go looking for a missing family, they might come by the cottage and find her.

So for the next three months, he shall play Iosif, the human that Gulmet wears. Husband, father, unable to hold his alcohol, and deathly afraid of serpents. He will purchase provisions and act as a human until the birthing. While Rajik craves only meat in her wolven form, Gulmet plans to find some breads and fruit for himself. The diversity in palate is one of the few advantages in wearing a human. Leading his mule and two-wheeled cart, he follows the steep road down to a pen of snorting pigs.

"Iosif," says a mustached man beside the pen. His face is pitted with scars. "I haven't seen you in weeks. How have you been?"

"Hello, Pavlos," Gulmet says, recalling his host's memories. "I am well."

"And your family?"

"Very well. Melina is growing fast." Gulmet smiles. "She takes after her mother. Stubborn."

Pavlos grins, revealing a chipped front tooth. "That's all women, my friend."

Gulmet laughs. The men chat of the weather and gossip. Pavlos' eldest will marry in three weeks' time.

"I'll see you at the wedding," Pavlos says as Gulmet loads a pair of sows into his cart.

"Of course." Gulmet must maintain appearances. He'll find an excuse for Efimia and Melina's absence. Sickness? Death? No, death brings mourners and well-wishers. Efimia's sister lives in Patras. He'll tell them she has grown ill and his wife and daughter went to be with her. The lie decided, Gulmet wishes Pavlos farewell and leaves the stinking village behind. Once the cubs are born, they will raze it and its filthy inhabitants.