CHAPTER EIGHT

Gabriel and De Mona watched Redfeather for at least five minutes, but he didn’t say a word. He paced the carpeted office, occasionally casting a glance at the lump of cloth. A thousand lies couldn’t avert what he knew was coming. Whether he liked it or not, the vengeful thing had chosen his grandson, and he needed to be prepared.

“This thing is a curse dating back to the siege,” Redfeather finally said.

“The siege.” Gabriel absently ran his hand through his slightly mussed hair. “Isn’t that the story you used to tell me when I was a kid? It was something about a battle between saints and demons, right?”

“Knights,” De Mona corrected. “They were called the Knights of Christ. My dad told me the story a time or two.”

“I always thought that it was something you used to tell me just for kicks,” Gabriel said to Redfeather. “The idea of demons actually existing just seemed a little out there … no offense,” he said to De Mona, who just grunted.

“No, the siege really happened, and Ms. Sanchez,” he nodded towards De Mona, “should be proof enough for you that they walk amongst us.” Redfeather moved towards one of the massive bookshelves, running his finger along the spines. He selected a thick, leather-bound book and tested its weight in his hand. “The story of the Seven-Day Siege was passed down from parent to child since after the last demon was slain. When our enemies were lain low, the Knights were disbanded and entrusted with the anointed weapons. It was our job to guard the weapons and the story in case the Knights would one day be called back to arms. We were to be prepared in case the forces of hell moved on humanity again. Though the Order of the Knights was disbanded, our ancestors made sure that we would never forget the men and women who died in the battle, or would we be ill prepared if the forces of hell tried to move against humanity again.”

Gabriel’s face suddenly went placid. “Granddad, why do you keep saying ‘we’?”

He looked up into the questioning face of his grandson. “Because it was our blood that won that day, and our blood which was to be hunted for all time by the dark agents. They will not rest until the last of the Hunters are no more.”

“Grandfather, I’m a vegetarian, remember? I’m no more of a hunter than you are.” He smirked at his grandfather.

Redfeather looked at his wrinkled hands and flexed them as if he were holding something. “But I was not always the man you see before you. It wasn’t so long ago that I stood proudly with the order, and my son with me. Your father was amongst the bravest of our brethren until he fell victim to the dark.”

“My father?” The subject of his father and that faithful night brought back painful memories. When Gabriel was a child, he had been a part of his parents’ carnival act, the Flying Redfeathers. They would wow the crowd every night with their death-defying acts; they had even traveled with a French circus troupe for a time. Those had been the best years of Gabriel’s life, until a freak fire in a trailer had put an end to it all. The only thing that had spared Gabriel’s life was the fact that he had been in town with some of the other performers getting supplies when the fire broke out. The blaze had claimed parents, uncle, and older brother, leaving Gabriel alone in the world until he was taken in by his grandfather.

“But they all died in an accidental fire,” Gabriel said emotionally.

“It was a fire that claimed them, but it was no accident; it was the work of hell’s minions,” Redfeather admitted. “I’m sorry that I lied to you, Gabriel, but I did so to hide the terrible truth from you.”

“And what is that truth?” Gabriel asked sharply. He couldn’t believe that the one person he had trusted most in the world had lied to him.

The tone of his voice stung the old man, but Redfeather understood Gabriel’s pain. Redfeather placed his hand on a large Bible that was on the bottom shelf and looked up at his grandson. “Gabriel, before I go on I must know that you are ready to accept what I have to tell you.”

“I wanna know,” Gabriel said in a low voice.

Redfeather nodded. “Very well then,” he said before pulling the Bible halfway off the shelf. A grinding sound came from the bookshelf to Gabriel’s left, just before it unhitched from the wall and slid to the side. Behind it was a glass display case, which crept forward on its wheeled stand. Inside the case was a breastplate that looked to be made of animal bones. Resting on a slender pole just behind it was a headdress of beautiful brown and white feathers. Gabriel found that it was extremely difficult to tear his eyes away from the hidden treasure, to pay attention to his grandfather’s explanation.

“This is the armor that protected our ancestors and our lineage during the Seven-Day Siege.” Redfeather traced the angle of the display case. It had been over ten years since he had last had reason to lay eyes on the armor. “He was the most skilled tracker in the Black Hills, when they still belonged to us, and friend to both animals and beast people. It was even said that he had one day taken one for his bride, but let me not get ahead of myself. He was to lead the hunt against the evil, but as it turned out, he ended up being the one to win the battle.”

“Wait a second, I’m no expert, but wasn’t someone called the Bishop supposed to be their general?” De Mona asked, trying to remember the whole tale in her head.

“Yes, Bishop Michael Francisco was indeed chosen to wield the Nimrod, but the last strike was not his,” Redfeather informed her. “When the Bishop was slain by the dark forces, it was the Hunter who picked up the trident, and to everyone’s surprise it answered to him. The Hunter turned the tide that day and closed the rift, sending the demons back to hell. Though some of them escaped, the nastiest were purged from this world.”

“So you think that this is that trident?” Gabriel knelt beside the fork. He hadn’t really meant to, but he rubbed his hand across the fabric of the jacket, tracing the outline of the fork with his fingers. It was like angels dancing along his arm and singing the sweetest melody in his ears.

“If the things you’ve told me tonight are true, yes,” Redfeather said. “There were thirteen anointed weapons in all, one for each of the chosen, but the trident was the most powerful. Over the years the items were lost, resurfacing here and there every so often. The forces of the light have been able to recover some, but so have the dark forces. There are a few floating around somewhere, but I have no idea how many.”

“Well, if these things were so damn dangerous, how come they were able to get lost in the shuffle? I mean, didn’t the Knights or the pope think to safeguard them in some way?”

“They did.” Redfeather knelt to unlock the case. “The Knights who survived agreed to keep their artifacts in case they were ever called to duty again. Some of the order stayed on to serve the church or Sanctuary, while others faded, living their lives as if the siege had never happened. It was peaceful for a while, but the peace was short-lived. It took several years, but one by one the Knights and their descendants were hunted by the dark forces and slaughtered. Families, friends, livestock … the demons spared none. Very few of the original lines survived, the Redfeathers being one of them.”

Gabriel walked over to the case and examined the items inside closely. His eyes drank in the beauty of the feathers in the headdress and how well preserved they were. Attached to the headdress was a faceplate, also carved from bone. The eagle’s powerful beak curved down into a near razor-sharp slope, hooking slightly at the tip. He stared into the dark pits that would’ve been the bird’s eyes, feeling a tickling whisper in the back of his head, while they spoke without speaking.

“I am the master of the storm.”

Gabriel looked around to see if anyone else had heard the whisper, but neither De Mona nor his grandfather gave any indication that they had.

“It was said,” Redfeather snapped Gabriel out of his daze, “that the king of the eagles gave of his own feathers to make that band.” He nodded at the headdress. “It endowed Redfeather with great sight. The bones,” he nodded to the breastplate, “were donated by the wolves. They felt that the souls of their kills would reinforce the armor to protect him from harm.”

“Whispering Hound,” Gabriel breathed.

Redfeather stared at his grandson. “That was one of the names given to him. He had the nose and instincts of a tracker, but the sweet tongue of a politician. The Bishop often kept council with the Hunter, and it was the Hunter’s sweet words that convinced the animals to throw in their lot with the Knights against the demons.”

Gabriel reached up and removed the headdress from its stand. He inhaled deep of the eagle’s wings, letting the knowledge embroidered into the feathers seep through him. When he spoke, it was his voice, but words from another time. “Our ancestor was a great hunter, and always brought more meat back to the village than any two men. What most didn’t know, not even his brothers, was that he spoke the language of the animals. While others shunned the wolves and fierce things that hunted the plains, Redfeather befriended them. He had hunted with the mountain lions of the great slopes, and taken vengeance with the wolves when their packs were being poached.” Gabriel raised the headdress to place it over his head but hesitated.

“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,” the 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.