Monster Hunter Nemesis (29 page)

CHAPTER 13

I spent years in that dungeon. Our conversations grew better over time. They had to, or I would have murdered him in frustration. Unlike the humans, my memory of the before had not been wiped entirely, only damaged. It did not take long for me to understand how to act human. My spirit had spent years observing them. I secretly had a head start.

It was Father who taught me how to speak. It took time for the language centers of my once-dead brain to begin working again. He talked a lot. I mostly listened. Even then I wasn’t much for talking. Humans talk too much. It’s like you never shut up.

He taught me to read. Every day he would bring me more books, theology, philosophy, and history. I would read them by the light of a torch. Father had a great library by the standards of the day. I read it all. I did not like poetry. Poetry is stupid. You must have to be born to appreciate that stuff.

He continued to improve his creation. Using a modern term, we worked the bugs out. The scientists of that day employed legions of body snatchers and grave robbers. As better raw materials came in, Father replaced my more obviously flawed parts. He would operate without anesthesia, trusting in the tightening of the chains to hold me down as he sawed my limbs off or the Elixir burned me pure. I would advise him when things felt correct. My understanding of correct was limited to what hurt and how much.

Father openly wept after seeing the new face that he had stretched over my skull. His creation was no longer quite such a hideous fiend. As I looked upon my reflection in the mirror I decided that I could finally pass for a human . . . At least an ugly one. If the light was bad.

I never told Father the truth about what I really was. It was better that way. He was able to live out the rest of his days unaware what he had let into the world. I was not burned at the stake. Everybody was content.

Until the Hunters came.

2 Days Ago

Michael Gutterres stopped his new motorcycle outside the industrial park’s fence and watched the activity. The Feds were out in force.

After his flight had landed at Dulles, he’d had a taxi take him to a bike dealership. It was nice having a credit card with no limit, even though whenever he turned in his receipts he always got a lecture about how their order was funded by the donations of widows and orphans. So he’d treated himself to a Ducati 1199 Panigale. It was much nicer than the piece of crap he’d used in China, and would be worth the lecture on fiscal responsibility.

The nearby property was swarming with suits and blue wind-breakers. Most of those had to be MCB. He’d listened to the news on the way over. They were reporting that the abandoned shipyard had been used for a military training exercise, but a helicopter had crashed and started a fire. It was a typical MCB cover story, and nothing compared to their recent work in Las Vegas. It was hardly convincing. This had Franks written all over it.

“This is Gutterres. I’m at the scene. I’m going to see if I can pick up the trail.”

“Confirmed. Once again, we would prefer to not make our presence in this endeavor known, Michael,” said the ever helpful voice in his radio.

“Duly noted, Father.” He took his helmet off so he wouldn’t have to listen to any more useless advice. They always asked the locals to support him. His assigned clerical support could be helpful at times, but usually they were just annoying. This one in particular seemed more worried about avoiding scandals. Gutterres didn’t care about politics; he was in this to protect the innocent from the forces of evil.

The Secret Guard of the Blessed Order of St. Hubert the Protector was the oldest Monster Hunting organization in the world. Their best historians believed that the patron saint of Hunters had gotten his start freeing the Merovingian countryside of werewolves in 682 AD. Their official charter dated back to the twelfth century. Even most of the other Monster Hunters in the world had never heard of them. There weren’t that many of them left, their occasional heavy lifting was done by the Swiss Guard, and it was rare that one of them ended up working in America. The Secret Guard tended to work in the places that the rest of the civilized world ignored or forgot, but the less fortunate needed protection just as much as the wealthy.

However, this was Franks they were talking about, who was a very special case, which meant the Vatican’s best problem solver got to return to his home country.

This was as close as he was going to get to last night’s fight without being spotted by the MCB, so it would have to do. He pulled the holy relic out of his coat. A regular St. Hubert’s Key was simply a metal bar that could be heated up and used to cauterize wounds, usually as a treatment for rabies in the days before germ theory. This one was special. This one was the first Key, forged by Hubertus himself, and it had been used to cauterize bites from things a whole lot worse than rabid dogs. It was said that the legendary Bartolomeu Zarco Cabral had driven this very Key through Baal’s eye at the battle of Cordoba, but he figured that was just the archivists messing with the new guys so they wouldn’t lose any of the sacred relics they signed out of the vaults.

He extended his hand, palm up, letting the iron bar rest there. The early Hunters had been forced to deal with all the same horrors they still faced today, only those poor bastards hadn’t had access to good explosives or modern firearms. They’d had to improvise, adapt, and survive. The Key was a leftover from those days, but it was still pretty handy for things like this.

The bar slowly turned. The porous old metal grated across his skin. Normally it would pick a direction and stay there, pointing toward an unholy being the same way a compass would point at magnetic north, but here, the Key was being tugged in a few different directions. He was used to minor things like imps or lesser demons screwing things up, but these pulls were all strong, so strong that they could be confused for Franks.

Gutterres swallowed hard. That was
very
bad. He was going to need to send for reinforcements.

“Show me the eldest.”

It took a moment to turn, suggesting that Franks had covered a lot of ground since he’d left this spot. The Key stopped, pointing due west.

* * *

Franks had eluded them again.

This was beginning to frustrate Kurst.

He had begun their search where Myers had crashed. A pair of his brethren had been left to confirm the kill, only they had lost contact. By the time Kurst and the others had arrived, those two physical bodies had been burned to ash. The human overseer’s body had been mutilated. The trail of shell casings and blood told the story. Franks had been here.

Cratos had dived into the river and searched the submerged car. It had belonged to the MCB. Eight, who had been known in the before time as Thymos, had found the boat Franks had stolen downriver. Bia discovered the tire tracks of Myers’ rescuers and followed them back to the main road.

As ordered, Kurst had called in the information. Humans would be sent to gather evidence. Kurst suspected they would discover nothing of use.

He knelt next to the puddle of blood. The spray had kept it moist enough not to completely dry. Two mortals had bled here, but only one had perished.
Curious.
They had taken Myers’ corpse with them, whether to unnerve Stricken that his rival might still be alive or out of the strange human respect for their dead, he did not know, but Kurst could sense the lingering death in this spot.

Bia joined him at the riverbank.
I know who Franks left with. I recognize his scent.

Kurst looked at her.
How?

You never forget the man who killed you.

It was not the sort of thing they could reveal to Stricken, but the information could be of use.
I will destroy Franks. You may have the humans.

The local authorities had not been here yet. No one lived close enough to have seen the fire through the trees and Myers’ car was completely submerged beneath the water. Kurst would be able to justify leaving the scene. They would keep moving, just as Franks had. They returned to the vehicle that they had taken from one of the Hunters at the shipyard. The Hunter had tried to stop them, but Cratos had casually broken his neck and tossed him in a dumpster. There had been no witnesses and in the confusion the humans would probably blame that murder on Franks as well.

Franks was picked up by MCB agents. They must have been following Myers to the rendezvous. They must have radioed Franks where to intercept our brethren. Franks knows MCB vehicles are tracked. He will get rid of it. They will have procured a new one.

Bia got on the radio. “November One Three requesting a GPS check on the closest MCB vehicles to our current position. Over.”

A moment later they got the response from STFU headquarters.
“November One Three, there is an MCB unit three clicks west of you. Sending you the coordinates now.”

They reached the highway. The next available establishment was a gas station, convenience store, and fast food restaurant. Kurst knew that was the right place even before they received the address. Their stolen vehicle needed fuel anyway, so Kurst pulled in next to a gas pump. There was a red flash in his side mirror. The familiar face of a greater demon was watching him through the glass.

We must speak.

Very well.
The horned red face faded. Kurst would go inside for this meeting. It would not surprise him to discover that Stricken was keeping an eye on them with that drone. Kurst got out of the SUV. Nearby humans were watching them curiously. Their advanced ceramic body armor was out of place. Kurst had not thought of that. He was still getting used to having a body, let alone thinking about what to cover it with.

Cratos and Bia went looking for the MCB car. Thymos tried to put gas into their vehicle, but was having some trouble operating the machine. Their educational bombardment had included basic familiarity with such things, but apparently this machine was different, and Thymos had not been on Earth long enough to do anything so mundane as
pump gas.

“No. I do not desire a car wash, foolish computer. Dispense fuel!”

Across from them, a corpulent pig of a human was putting gas in his truck. He’d seen their odd manner of dress and was studying their vehicle. “Hey there. Going to a science fiction convention or something?”

“Or something,” Kurst stated.

“What’s PT stand for?”

“It stands for
fuck off!
” Thymos shouted as he punched the gas pump. The fat human turned his head in fear.

Kurst walked into the fast food restaurant. It was breakfast time. The few humans inside stopped shoveling processed dead animals into their wet face-holes long enough to glance at him, and then away, not paying any respect to their obvious better. They were weak and stupid. They had been granted the ultimate glory of a mortal body melded to an eternal intelligence and this was what they did with it? He hated them so much . . .

Once inside the bathroom, Kurst drew his combat knife, and began scratching the ancient symbol into the mirror over the sink. A human was standing at a stall. He flushed, saw Kurst vandalizing the glass, and fled without washing his hands.

When the symbol was in place, the ancient demon’s visage appeared. The wide, flat skull, thick curling horns, and razor-sharp teeth were impressive. Now that was a
proper
physical body. If Kurst’s body looked more like that, then the humans would know to grovel before him.

Greetings, General.

“What do you want?” Kurst snapped.

To offer you freedom from your servitude. My master has found a way to slip your captor’s bonds.

The demon was speaking of the device Stricken had implanted into all of the Nemesis prototypes’ heads. Kurst could feel it there, waiting. Once again, Kurst was a mere victim to a creator’s whims. The idea filled him with rage.

“How?” he demanded.

My master has drawn many to his flock. When the Dread Overlord was destroyed, he gained the fealty of the Sanctified Church of the Temporary Mortal Condition. Their necromancers are artists in the sculpting of flesh. They developed a serum, distilled from the blood of vampires and lycanthropes, but their mortal bodies proved too weak to use it, and all who partook perished. For your mighty will, controlling it would be nothing. The toxins the albino has placed in you are designed to work against your current body. The Condition’s serum will enable you to change your physical body however you see fit.

There was a commotion inside the restaurant. Someone had begun screaming. There was a loud crash. He would have to make this quick. “This would give us the ability to shape-shift?”

Yes. You could become invincible. You would be immune to the albino’s poison. This serum can render your vessel into whatever form you desire.

Franks had his precious Elixir of Life to keep his body like that of the humans, but Franks had never suffered from too much imagination. Kurst liked the idea of twisting his form into something altogether better. “In return, you expect me to exchange one form of slavery for another?”

No. The master offers this to you as a Gift. The decision to join us and lead his army in the coming war remains yours to make.

A flame appeared on the bathroom wall. It burned through the tile, leaving a molten trail until it formed a circle. There was a flash of light, and the tile disappeared, leaving a dark portal to somewhere else. A vial dropped through the hole and fell into the sink. There was another flash and the portal was gone. Kurst picked up the vial of red, glowing liquid. The sludge crawled up the inside of the glass, as if seeking the warmth of his fingertips through its cage.

A single drop will be sufficient to purify your form. There is enough there for all of you who exist now and hundreds more to come.

“I accept this Gift.” Of course, he would test it on some of his brethren first.

The demon dipped his horned head.
You are wise, General.

Kurst shattered the mirror with his fist, scattering the symbol.