Homeward Bound (Journeyman Book 1) (11 page)

“Blast!” Henry snapped as the shadow melded back into the mist. He reached into the bag and pulled out a banishment stone, shouting
“Daemon Ejicio!”

The stone pulsed and red swirls of light spiraled out toward the man, held a good way off his feet by one of Geirolf’s considerable arms. He continued to stab at the hairy limb with his blade, even as the lights struck him and wrapped around tightly like ropes. The wolfman then released him, allowing the spell to continue carrying its prisoner off to the west and out of sight.

“Are you alright?” asked Henry, concerned by the amount of blood pooling beneath the pads of Geirolf’s feet.

Grabbing the silver knife sticking out of his arm, Geirolf jerked it out and threw it to the ground. The pain was indomitable and he couldn't hide a grimace. “I'll be fine,” he lied, “but we should get going while we can.”

“I agree,” came a strangely welcoming female voice from behind, “oh but wait, on second thought, I think not. Your luck and your time have run out.”

The two saw a tall woman standing in the middle of the street, dressed in black leather pants and a short but matching jacket covering a dark maroon shirt. She glared callously at them with her demonic eyes, thick blonde hair floating down her neck to her shoulders. She remained silent with an arm raised as if about to give a signal.

A small army of goblin-like creatures appeared out of the fields to the south. It dawned upon Henry with the rising sun that there had truly been no means of escape this day.

A large ogre, hideous and bloated, approached from the west. “I take back,” it said, words barely formed over its grunts.

“No,” the woman forbade, “the overseers at Number 2 failed in their simple obligations, unable to keep this unimpressive man and his… pet from escaping.” She looked back at the outlying hills; there in the distance a little over a mile away was a massive construction operation. “When you want something done right these days,” she said faintly, “you have to do it yourself. I'll take them.”

Geirolf and Henry were bound in warded chains, crisscrossed around their hands and feet, and set in the center of the goblin ranks as the mysterious woman confidently led them onto the site. It was desolate and dirty, all remnants of what had been there long erased by the vehicles and machinery parked haphazardly around the property.

Her feet crunched along on the brittle mud, which transformed quicker than a blink into tufts of dead grass that pushed up between the spaces in scattered debris, like stubble on a scabby chin. She had walked through a hole in the force field that encased the entire site, which also had an illusion spell over it to conceal what was beyond.

The prisoners were quickly ushered in as the goblins filed away into the fields, the ogre bringing up the rear and following all too closely for Geirolf; its stench was foul enough at a distance, but it was downright unbearable when the closeness of its breath teased his ruddy hair.

Once the four were inside, a group of hooded figures robed in black and gold rushed in and began chanting a guttural mantra. The hole began to shrink in response and within moments was closed firmly.

Henry raised his head, having kept it down since departing the farm. There were huge piles of rubble strewn around numerous derelict buildings, all aged from years of neglect and decay.

There was a large structure to their right; two stories of mottled brick that had once been a sanitarium, having declined and since closed after allegations of abuse and fraud putrefied its reputation throughout the community. It was primarily an institution for the mentally unstable, although a hospital ward had been in place for more traditional medicines and treatments.

Sweeping sets of broken windows set in off white frames wrapped around all sides, while a set of four dank columns lined the chunky, cracked steps up to the entrance. There was no door to the building, only an opening where one should have been.

That would not be their destination, the woman veering sharply to the left toward an old church on the grounds. Built of heavy stone, it was brown and weather-beaten, the once colorful panes of arched glass reduced to thin, jagged edges. A craggy steeple rose up through the dead shrubbery, its godforsaken presence towering over the rest of the area.

As they approached, a distant scream cut through the eerie silence from across the courtyard, catching in Geirolf’s ears. He looked over to see if anything could be made out. There was no one or thing to be seen, yet the wretched sounds continued to come from behind the facade of a deserted shack that stood all by itself on the far end of the property.

Poor soul
, he thought without much more time to dwell on matters. Before long they had reached the bottom of the church steps, which rose up to a pair of doors, firmly shut.

“My God,” said Henry, bringing a hand over his mouth.

Aghast, he realized the lights at the base of the stairs – which he thought were adorned with cast metal heads – were capped with real ones, impaled right through the bottom. They cast a sickening orange glow on the walls and a wash of red spread out on the ground beneath them.

He wondered if they had been tortured prisoners, demonic soldiers that had failed their master’s bidding, or mere innocent souls from the town nearby. Knowing what he knew about these foul creatures, the last option was the most appealing. Desperately, he wanted to look away from the macabre sight, but could not bring himself to do so. He wanted to be far away from there, in the security of a safe house, but there was no means of escape.

Summoning what strength he had left in him, he managed to tear his watery glance away and bow his head. With few to no options left, he cupped his hands and began to pray silently; his words sending itches down to the woman’s bones.

“I don't think any of your gods will hear you here, Mr. Abington, ” she interrupted. “Especially the one you're trying to speak to.”

Defiantly, he continued and with a smirk she waved a hand, the doors creaking open by themselves.

The ogre grunted, pushing them forward and into the pew-less nave, still dark with the remnants of the night. The faint smell of incense still clung to the walls and the inside was oddly devoid of other demons. There was an air of peace about the place, which in turn made it more eerie.

Ahead of them was a simple stone altar, heavy and rectangular, covered in rich black satin. It sat underneath a marvelously detailed apse and in the days the building was alive it must have been a sight to behold.

“Grolg, bring them,” she commanded, snapping then pointing to the altar as she made her way behind it.

The lumbering beast hit them both in the shoulder, driving them along with arduous
thumps
until they were about ten feet away. There, he forced them each down to their knees, Geirolf struggling to keep himself conscious from the pain now coursing in his body.

Through labored breaths, the wolf cleared his throat to address her. “Who are ye?” he asked between the hard gasps and wheezes.

“
Elasa impamis om -”

“In the common tongue, ye stupid bitch!” he bellowed, resulting in a cocky laugh out of her pompous face.

“Quite the mouth on you… Geirolf is it?” she asked, tapping a finger on her chin while scrutinizing him. “If I recall, that means ‘wolf spear’ in Nordic. My, my, what an unfitting characterization for such a pathetic beast, unless of course it was referring to your sharp tongue.”

“Cut to the chase, she-demon,” he retorted, spitting up blood. “Are ye going to answer my question or not?”

“Do you really think that you are any sort of position to be asking questions, mongrel?” she snipped. “In any case, we have all the time in the world to discuss matters before getting to know each other on a first name basis.” She then spoke directly to Henry, “Sadly, you're not blessed with as long a life, so won't be around for the best parts.”

She dipped below the altar and removed a carafe of wine, pouring it into a plain chalice before taking a long drink. It was bitter but refreshing, something she couldn't experience when in demon form, and it quenched her thirst if only for a short time.

After another swig of wine, she swished it around her mouth and reached back underneath the coverings. Out came a large silver dagger, its triangular blade twisting down its entire length and tapering to a sharp point. She swallowed as the tip clanged on the altar.

“Now I know that I should really start with that one,” she told Geirolf, pointing the knife over to Henry, “but this proverbial spear that you are named after… I'm fascinated by it and want to test it against my own metal.”

Methodically, she walked around the stone slab and stood imposingly ahead of the werewolf. With no warning and a quick flick, she cut across his snout and he heaved in agony, blood gushing from the wound.

“Geirolf!” Henry shouted, receiving a hefty strike from Grolg as a reward. He dropped onto his hands, fighting for breath, knowing that Geirolf didn’t have much blood left. The amount pooled on the floor was staggering and who knows how much had leaked out between here and the farm.

“Silence meat bucket!” she yelled. “It's not your turn… yet.” She grabbed hold of Geirolf’s muzzle, squeezing it where she had just cut it before pushing it off to the side. “So tell me fluffy, what do you Journeymen have to do with this activity along the Devil’s Highway? What exactly are you all looking for?”

There was silence.

Enraged, she slapped him hard across the face, sending more blood to the floor.

“I do not know,” Geirolf replied softly, determined not to let her break him, though inside he was hanging by a thread.

“Oh come now, traitor, surely the higher ups told you something? If not there, then what about the reconnaissance happening in Michigan? The buzz in New York? Why in Lucifer’s name is your Order messing around in things they do not understand?”

He returned to silence and she raised the knife to cut him again.

“Stop it!” Henry shouted. “Just stop! He wouldn't know! He's not even part of the Order, so how the hell would he know anything?!”

“Yet he chose to help you,” she responded coldly to his request for mercy, thrusting the dagger into the wolf’s shoulder, then again through his upper arm.

Geirolf winced, but remained vigilant.

“Well, my dear Henry,” she said. “ It seems as if you are right. The mangy mutt has absolutely no idea.”

“Yes,” Henry replied with relief. “That's what I've been telling -”

“So, there is no need to keep this treacherous hound around, is there? Grolg, eat! Be sinfully gluttonous!”

Geirolf looked to Henry with tears forming in his bloodshot eyes; the heaviness of the ogre’s footsteps counted down his impending doom.

Before long Grolg was right behind him, placing those giant hands on his shoulders and opening his mouth.

“Goodbye old friend,” Geirolf said, biting down hard on his back tooth and cracking a hidden L-pill full of silver nitrate. As he swallowed the solution, the acid burned his throat and he convulsed, Grolg dropping him to the ground. In seconds, his heart stopped beating and his brain was dead; Geirolf had passed, leaving behind the naked body of a man sprawled on stone tiles.

The woman looked to the dead prisoner, halting the ogre’s second advance on him. Partly impressed by his fearlessness and massively upset she didn't have the information wanted, she turned her attention to Henry, the red of her eyes burning more intensely than ever before.

“Your turn,” she said, turning the dagger in her hand while stepping over his way.

Suddenly the church shook, kicking up dust all around them, nearly knocking her off balance.

“Onoskelis, it is I,” a voice resonated daemoniacally from all around.

She cursed mildly under her breath and was visibly furious at the interruption. She threw the dagger to the altar, Geirolf’s warm blood splattering across the delicate coverings. Signaling to Grolg, she walked toward the vestry.

“Make sure our remaining guest is kept comfortable until I return,” she ordered. “Just be sure to not kill him.”

As she opened the door and stepped through, Henry's pained screams echoed through the cavernous church.
Snapping her fingers, she answered the call as the doors closed behind her. “What news do you bring, Stolas?”

THE DEMON AGARES WAITED
in room at the very back of the vestry, listening in on the ongoing conversation between Stolas and Onoskelis while stroking his long, wintry beard. He was dressed conservatively, ironically in something that one would likely wear when attending Mass.

His face, creased and experienced, held a deep crested frown as he took in the exchange.

“
Vale!
Stolas!” boomed her guttural voice from the other room. A second later the set of heavy doors flung open and she glided through, snapping her fingers to slam them closed again.

The church had become her own little sanctuary, away from the constant bickering and stresses over in the sanitarium. The vestry acted as another layer of peace in her otherwise chaotic world.

She took a prolonged breath, striding over to her elder attendant and with a quick blink transformed her eyes from red and black to the host’s original light blue.