The Dark Storm (9 page)

“Gabriel?” Redfeather touched his shoulder. His grandfather’s hand brought Gabriel back to the here and now.

“I’m fine,” Gabriel said, fighting off the nausea that was trying to get him to embarrass himself. “Please, continue.” He placed the headdress on the seat next to him.

Redfeather nodded. He was hesitant to pick up the worn gauntlet. Though in all the years he’d been in possession of it, it had never reacted to his touch, it still made him uneasy. “This was Redfeather’s anointed weapon, the Dagger of Fate.” He held up a rusty dagger that Gabriel hadn’t noticed before. Its blade was bent and worn, but the bone handle was still smooth. When Gabriel reached for the dagger, Redfeather almost snatched it back. It was so faint that he almost didn’t notice it, but he was all too familiar with the allure of the anointed weapons.

Redfeather placed the dagger on the table and pulled
another volume from the shelf. “The details are sketchy on this one, as it wasn’t one of the original thirteen weapons.”

“I thought all these fabled weapons came from the guys in the pretty robes,” De Mona interrupted.

“For the most part they did, but the dagger had belonged to the Hunter since he was a boy. It was passed down from his father.” Redfeather went back to studying the book. “It wasn’t the most imposing of the weapons, but it was a power unto itself and when wielded by the Hunter it always rang true.”

“Doesn’t look like much to me,” De Mona said in a very unimpressed tone.

Redfeather turned to her. “I’d think that you, if anyone, could attest to the fact that surface appearances don’t count for much.”

Gabriel picked the dagger up off the table and tested its weight. It was subtle, but he could feel the power answering to his blood. Like the Nimrod, it pulsed under his touch, but the power felt different … cleaner. “For as long as I hold you, my people shall never go hungry.” The words came from somewhere inside Gabriel’s head.

De Mona eyed him suspiciously. “Funny, a few hours ago you acted as if you’d never seen that Nimrod thing, but suddenly you’re very knowledgeable about all this. Is there something you want to share with me?”

He looked up from the dagger that he had been studying intensely. “I don’t … I mean, I didn’t. It’s just like seeing all this stuff is filling my head with information.” He massaged his temples. Feeling nauseous, he went back to sit beside the headdress. Something magical passed between the dagger and the headdress and he again found himself touching the feathers.

“It has to be the Bishop,” Redfeather spoke up.

“What’s a guy who’s been dead for three hundred years have to do with what’s happening now?” De Mona wanted to know.

“The Nimrod forms an almost unbreakable bond with its wielder. It had formed such a bond with the Bishop before he was consumed by it.”

“What do you mean, ‘consumed’?” Gabriel stared at the trident cautiously. Even though it was wrapped in the jacket, he could still see it perfectly in his mind. It was glowing and calling to him. The call was so intense that he had reached out and touched the jacket before he realized he had even moved.

“Exactly what it sounds like, the Nimrod was not only the Bishop’s weapon, but it ultimately became his prison. Trapped within the trident is the soul of the Bishop,” Redfeather explained, but Gabriel was only half-listening. “Gabriel?” Redfeather’s voice fell on deaf ears.

The Nimrod had begun to pulse hard enough for Gabriel to feel the vibration through the couch. De Mona must have felt it too, because she looked at the wrapped jacket like it was a poisonous snake.
“The power is in the blood, the blood restores all
,” the voice whispered in the back of Gabriel’s head. He looked to see if De Mona had heard it, but she was still staring at the wrapping.
“The power is in the blood
,” the voice said more sharply. Gabriel went to cover his ears and realized that he was now holding the dagger.
“The blood restores all
,” the voice repeated. Gabriel was confused at first, but when he looked at the faint glow that was emitting from the dagger he understood what needed to be done.

“What are you doing?” Redfeather moved to stop Gabriel, but it was already too late.

Gabriel watched his hands move of their own accord and placed the blade of the dagger in his right palm. A thin line of blood welled in his palm and dripped along
the edge of the dagger. He watched in wonder as the blade absorbed his blood and the rust began to fall away. When the transformation was complete, it was as beautiful as it had been when the Hunter had wielded it.

“How in God’s name did you do that?” Redfeather bent to inspect the dagger, but not close enough to actually touch it. In all the years he’d kept the thing it had never answered to his touch.

“I wish I knew.” Gabriel started at the dagger. “These things, or whatever is empowering them, are speaking to me. Haven’t either of you felt it?” He looked from De Mona to Redfeather, who were staring at him as if he were losing it. “Don’t look at me like that,” he snapped. Gabriel suddenly had a theory and picked up the jacket concealing the trident. “If the dagger responded to my blood, I wonder if the Nimrod will.” He unwrapped the fork.

“Gabriel, you mustn’t; we can’t risk it binding itself to you further,” Redfeather tried to caution his grandson.

“The blood is the restorer
,” the voice enticed Gabriel. Nervously he touched his bloody hand to the trident, and the room was flooded with light.

De Mona was the first to recover from the blast. A powerful wind whipped through the room, soaking both her and everything in it in rain, but there were no windows in the basement. It was as if a storm had materialized out of thin air. She looked for the humans and found Redfeather on all fours in the corner. Like De Mona, the blast had knocked him senseless. She peered through the increasing rainfall, trying to see what had become of Gabriel, and her eyes went wide. Not only was he unaffected by the freak storm; he was also the source.

He was standing in the middle of a vortex of wind, with papers and books swirling around him at an incredible
rate of speed. In his hands he held the Nimrod, which had returned to its full jeweled brilliance. Lightning jumped from the trident and traveled through his body before dispersing at his feet. She tried to move to help him, but every time she tried to get up from behind the sofa the wind threatened to carry her away.

“It’s the Nimrod!” Redfeather shouted over the wind.

“I know what it is, but how in the hell do we shut it off?”

“We must break the connection,” Redfeather said, pulling himself along the bookshelf. He had almost made it to Gabriel when the young man turned his eyes on his grandfather, eyes that were not his own.

“The Hunters.” Gabriel let out a demonic-sounding cackle. “Your lot were always the most selfless and most foolish of us.” Gabriel slowly raised the trident and aimed it at his grandfather. The power flared between the broken points and died as De Mona broke a chair over Gabriel’s back.

The reptilian eyes that had been watching the Redfeather brownstone from the shadows squinted against the blinding flash that had just consumed the lower level. The Stalker’s natural instincts bid it to flee, but the greater fear of its master rooted it to the spot. The flash only lasted a few seconds, but the mystic print it left was a very distinctive one. The Stalker would be well rewarded when it took the information back to its master.

When the Stalker turned around to leave, a massive hand grabbed it about the neck. With enough force to shatter nearly all the bones in the creature’s back, it was slammed to the ground. The Stalker clawed frantically at the meaty forearm of its attacker but found that the skin was rock hard. Gray eyes stared out from a face that was almost entirely covered in thick red hair, and the creature knew that its time within the host’s body had come to an end.

“Spawn of hell,” the bearded man said in a Bostonian accent, laced with a bit of his mother’s Irish heritage. “In the name of my Lord and my family, I cast thee back to the pit which birthed you!” With a swing of the bearded man’s massive arm, he slammed his jeweled hammer through the Stalker’s skull and webbed the concrete below.

The bearded man spat on the rotting corpse of the Stalker’s host body. “May your black-hearted master punish you for your failure.” He pulled the hammer from the ruined mass of the body’s skull and examined the black gook that now coated the head of his hammer. Before his very eyes the hammer began to absorb the substance. No matter how many times he had seen the feat, it always amazed him.

“Another one down,” he said into a two-way radio’s headset.

“Good riddance
,” the metallic voice squawked back.
“Any sign of more shitheads?
” This was a term the bearded man and his partners used when referring to Stalkers. Their favorite method of incapacitating Stalkers was by crushing their skulls. Whatever it was that passed for their brains always looked like shit when it oozed out.

The bearded man looked around before answering. “Not that I can see. Satan’s little ass kissers have probably scuttled back to whatever holes they crawled out of.”

“I’m still gonna have Jackson look around to make sure. Morgan, you might still want to make a quick sweep of the block
,”
t
he voice said.

“Not to worry, Jonas. If there are any more lurking about, Jackson and I will make short work of them, you can bet. Any idea what the hard-on is about that they have for the cute couple?”

“Not just yet. All we’ve got to go on is the fact that the shitheads jumped them in the parking lot. They don’t
usually just attack out in the open like that. Someone sent them to pay that visit. My gift doesn’t come with video feed and you guys arrived at the scene too late to actually see what happened. All we can do at this point is speculate, or ask them what happened
.”

“In a pig’s eye, my friend,” Morgan replied. “What would you do if a six-five Irishman and a reject from the movie
Colors
come calling about a run-in you had with a pack of zombies?”

“They’re demons who have taken possession of corpses
,” Jonas corrected him.
“You may be right about the direct approach. What I really want to know is how in the nine hells did they manage to escape? There were at least two shitheads and a demon that I haven’t been able to identify yet
.”

“Maybe they told him they were going to call the police,” Morgan said sarcastically.

“I seriously doubt that. We’ll keep an eye on them for now until we find out what their angle is
.”

“We aren’t the only enemies the demons have out there. What if they’re working for another nasty faction of this little dance?”

The line went silent for a few beats before Jonas’ distorted voice came back.
“We kill them
.”

From the shadows another set of eyes was watching the turn of events. Only when he was sure the bearded man was gone did he come out to assess the situation. Casting an expressionless glance at what remained of the Stalker, the old man wrinkled his nose.

“Poor soul,” he said to no one in particular. “I would beg the Lord to have mercy on you, but I’m afraid my prayers would go unanswered. There is no salvation for the servants of Belthon.” The old man looked in the direction of the Redfeathers’ brownstone and smirked. “Be
wary, young Hunter, for the Bishop sleeps no more and his thirst for vengeance is all consuming. Keep to your faith, for only it will save you from what lies ahead.” The air around the man rippled once before he vanished.

“You fool girl, you could’ve killed him.” Redfeather picked his way through what was left of his study. Furniture was smashed and books that contained centuries of knowledge were now ash resting on what was left of the massive bookshelves. The Nimrod had shown its might.

“If I recall correctly I stopped him from killing you!” De Mona shot back.

Redfeather ignored her, and continued on to his grandson. Gabriel was lying in a heap, with his clothes smoldering. The Nimrod had vanished, but the air was still thick with magical residue. When Redfeather went to check for a pulse, he jerked his hand back. Gabriel’s skin was almost too hot to touch.

“Gabriel!” Redfeather called out, but the boy didn’t stir. Frantically Redfeather rushed into the study’s small bathroom and wet a towel. When he first touched it to the young man’s forehead, steam began to rise from it. After a few moments he cooled off enough for Redfeather to carry him to the couch.

“What the hell was that?!” De Mona came to stand next to the sofa, where Redfeather was attending to Gabriel.

“That was a sample of the Nimrod’s power,” Redfeather said, still trying to rouse his grandson.

“S
ample
?” De Mona asked in disbelief. “Jesus Christ, that storm almost ripped this whole place apart!”

“Dear girl, that was but a drop of water in an ocean,” Redfeather said seriously. “In the right hands the Nimrod could level a city block, but in the hands of the Dark Order it could enslave humanity.”

“Is he okay?” she asked, noticing the faint smoke that was still rising from Gabriel’s clothes.

“I hope so,” Redfeather said, placing his ear to Gabriel’s chest. “He’s breathing, but I can’t wake him.”

“Is he in some kind of coma?” De Mona asked, cautiously making her way to the couch.