Damoren (29 page)

“
Max, you are my friend. Please, I need you. You have more knowledge of our needs and assets than anyone else. We need that knowledge to survive. One of our knights must stay with us in case Anya’s people attack us again. If you go, then someone else stays. I need you here.”

Schmidt swallowed then nodded.

After a tense, but brief silence, Turgen turned to Malcolm.
“How quickly can your team leave for Florence?”

Malcolm looked at the others.
“We will need to restock weapons and supplies. It’s a long drive. We can leave by this evening.”

From the journal of Sir Ernest Burrows, 1873

23 June
- I have arrived in Paris and found the shop of Célestin Dumonthier. He is an agreeable man, and became very excited at my plans. I expressed my desire for all of Dämoren to be used in the pistol’s creation, as well as incorporating the Boxer cartridge. Dumonthier showed me several of his pieces, as well as those of his competitors, asking me which features I wanted most. When he asked if I would leave Dämoren in his care I explained that it was not possible. I told him Dämoren was a treasured heirloom and that I would spend my entire fortune and more to see her rebuilt. He understood and has invited me to stay with him and his brother until the task is complete.

3 July
- Dumonthier is a genius. He has designed the gun from my dreams. Seven-shot, using an attached ejecting rod, unlike his cutlass pistol. The bronze of Dämoren’s quillons will be used for the cartridges. Like Watson, Dumonthier insists Dämoren’s older steel is not strong enough for the barrel, but quickly ceased his protests when I told him it was not negotiable.

7 July
- Dumonthier demonstrated today that a barrel made solely of Dämoren’s steel cannot work. A barrel made from sword steel he estimated to be the same quality as hers, shattered on the second shot. With much reluctance I have agreed to have finer-quality metal mixed with Dämoren’s to make a more suitable pistol. Still, he has agreed to use all of Dämoren’s steel, using much of it in the tools required for loading. Somehow I fear that despite his insistence, much more of her blade will be used for these tools than for the gun itself.

 11 July
- Today has been a most trying day. Dumonthier melted much of Dämoren’s blade in his shop, and while I know in my heart that this is necessary, I cannot help but wonder if I am simply desecrating her. I forced myself to watch, to be with her. I will not leave her side, no matter how much it may pain me. The Frenchman was sympathetic, seeing my reaction. I think he suspects her true importance to me.

14 July
- Dumonthier bored the barrel today. Without my prompting, he gathered all the shavings for later use.

22 July
- Dämoren’s frame is complete. Today Dumonthier introduced me to an engraver named Cassel. Cassel is a small man, almost child-like in stature. Dumonthier insists he is the most capable man for the task.

The papers reported a most gruesome killing in Loriet. A pair of children were torn apart by some animal. It is the second killing in as many months. Once, such reports would hasten me to investigate further, but I find myself impotent to act.
 

30 July
- Dämoren has thirty completed cartridges. Her bullet mould and press should be finished in a few days.

Cassel hides in the corner chiseling Dämoren, but refuses to let me watch. It is maddening, but Dumonthier defends him. Cassel is a religious man. This morning I overheard him singing psalms while working and it comforts me to know that a man of God is decorating her, even if he is infuriating.

6 August
- Cassel has engraved the cartridges and tools. I now understand Dumonthier’s recommendation of him. His work is magnificent. He says Dämoren’s gold leaf is almost complete. I yearn to touch her again.

11 August
- This morning Dumonthier presented me with Dämoren. I cannot describe the joy, her beauty. On holding her I could feel my mistress still inside. She lives!

He
honored me with the offer of her first shot. Under his guidance, I moulded the bullet of the finest silver, and while Dumonthier was not observing, I mixed several flakes of my own dried blood into her powder. This is my sacrifice, my tribute.

I thanked Dumonthier for his work, and generously paid him for his hospitality and for any documentation he had made of Dämoren. He pleaded that we test a shot before I leave, but I refused. Dämoren
’s first shot shall be in combat. 

I suspect a werewolf is terrorizing Loiret. I ride now to meet it. Either Dämoren shall slay the beast, or I shall die as the madman who killed and defiled her remains.

Chapter
Sixteen

A short, orange truck raced down the narrow street, its chrome rearview whooshing inches past Matt’s ear. The raised walkways along Florence’s stone streets took some getting used to. The locals navigated the ancient city’s cramped thoroughfares with a confidence and speed that would make a stunt driver wince. Pedestrians and motorists never slowed for one another, but somehow moved in perfect synchronicity like gears inside some bizarre clockwork machine.

The smell of fresh pastries wafted down the canyon streets as bakeries prepared for the morning
’s tide of tourists. Matt jogged down the little path, Luiza a few feet ahead of him. The sidewalk was no more than eighteen inches across, building facades on one side, and hurried commuters on the other, forcing them to remain single-file. It made it inconvenient to talk for their morning jogs, but the view of the knight’s tight rear inside those running shorts was at least some consolation.

Sweat ran down Matt
’s face and neck. Luiza was running him a lot harder than normal and keeping up was becoming a real problem. He suspected her frustration at their lack of progress was the culprit for today’s chase. Matt swallowed, trying to ease the dry tickle in his throat. Pink water sloshed inside the bottle in his hand, teasing his thirst. In the dozen days since coming to Florence, Matt had lost count of how many blood compasses he’d made. Every morning he made new ones for everyone, refreshing them again in the evenings and late hours of night.

They had scoured every part of the city, Anya
’s school, her old apartment, and haunts, finding no signs of her people, not even a single demon. They’d searched outlying villages, and nearby cities. Twice, Matt had gone to Siena. Allan and Luc had taken the train to Bologna. Three days prior, Malcolm had gone off to Rome with a compass, though its potency once he’d arrived would have diminished to maybe thirty feet; a dangerously short distance when trying to track a demon. However, Malcolm’s creepy beetle tattoo would help. Every time, they’d come back with nothing. It was like chasing shadows.

Luiza turned at the next intersection and Matt followed her around the corner.
A few blocks later the street opened up into a large plaza. Reaching their cool-off spot, Luiza slowed to a brisk walk as she passed a statue of a mounted rider.

Matt caught up with her as she reached a marble fountain of Poseidon, staring down over the plaza.
A pair of middle-aged women in oversized plastic sunglasses stood before it, snapping pictures.

“
You running from something,” Matt panted. “Or late for a date with the fish god, here?”

She swigged from her
water bottle and shook her head. “Just...frustrated. We’re running out of time.”

Matt held out his hand for the bottle, which she gave him.
He squeezed a gulp down and let out a breath. “We knew it was a long shot. Maybe Allan and Malcolm will find something in Pisa today.”

Luiza wiped the sweat from her face and frowned.
“If the cultists were going to Pisa they’d have just flown there. They came
here
. So where are they?”

“
Wish I knew,” Matt said, leading her past the fountain. They passed a crowd of giggling girls circled before a towering marble copy of the David. An open-air sculpture gallery rested across from it. He stopped before a green figure of Perseus, sword in one hand, severed head of Medusa in the other. Bronze blood and gore hung from the gorgon’s neck.

“
You know there are lots of other statues to admire,” Luiza said. “You don’t have to keep looking at the same one every day.”

Matt shrugged.
“Schmidt had told me that Perseus’s sword was a holy weapon and Medusa was a demon. In a way, Perseus was one of us.”

“
At least
we
get to wear clothes,” she said.

He grinned.
“True.”

“
Come on.” Luiza motioned her head to the side. “Let’s get back.”

“
You go on ahead.”

Luiza gave him a look.
“The boys will be leaving soon and will need some of your compasses.”

“
Made them this morning when I did this one.” Matt held up the pink-filled sports drink bottle. He offered it to her. “Here. Go on back to the hotel. I’ll catch you at breakfast.”

She took the bottle, hesitant, as if accepting it made her an accomplice or something.
“Are you all right?”

“
Yeah.” He scanned the open plaza. A couple of the street vendors wheeled out their little carts of postcards and cheap trinkets. His
little purchase
should be ready by now. But he couldn’t get it with Luiza around. “Just want to think about some stuff. Clear my head.”

“
All right,” she said, her chocolate eyes still probing. “Don’t take too long. You have your phone?”

Matt nodded, turning back to the bronze sculpture.
Luc had picked them all up fresh disposables the day they’d left for Florence. New numbers Anya wouldn’t know or be able to track. “I’ll be fine. I’ll see you in a bit.”

He studied the statue as Luiza left.
There was a time when demon hunters were heroes. Men with monuments and legends, not pseudo-criminals hiding from the world’s notice. What would it have been like to be honored by kings?

Once Matt was sure Luiza was gone, he turned and left the plaza.
He followed the streets, turning alongside the river that cut through the city. Ahead, a bridge spanned the canal, its deck bulging with tan and yellow buildings. Some were slung so far off the sides that Matt questioned their safety. He walked toward it.

As he drew closer he passed an ancient iron ring affixed to the riverside wall, probably used to tie up horses once, he guessed.
Dozens of padlocks hung from the rusty hoop, many linked through each other into a bulbous lump. Some were engraved, others initialed in faded marker. A few feet later, he passed another, this one completely buried beneath locks. It was almost organic, as if they’d grown there like brass and silver barnacles. One tour guide Matt had eavesdropped on said lovers did that as a way to eternalize their commitment. Matt figured that it was a more tasteful expression than the American method, which was spray painting names on an overpass.

Turning onto the bridge, he passed several tiny shops, their doors and windows still shuttered.
Matt stepped into an arched alcove and waited.

A herd of tourists shuffled past.
Their guide, a busty woman with thick black hair and stiletto heels, led the way, carrying a slender stick with a bright green cloth tied to the end so her flock could find her. She walked in quick bursts, then stopping every thirty or so feet to allow the procession enough time too
ooh
and
aah
as they caught up.

Eventually, he spied a woman with short, graying hair work her way through the growing crowd.
She unlocked one of the shop doors and slipped inside. A minute later she came back out and began lowering the dark wood shutters from the windows.

“
Good morning,” she said, as Matt approached.

“
Good morning,” he replied. “Is it done?”

The woman smiled.
“Finished it last night.” She led him in to the tiny store, cramped with glass cases of gold and silver jewelry.

Matt admired several of the pieces.
Their hefty prices might discourage some, but there were still more than enough customers hungry for real Ponte Vecchio gold to warrant the inflation. He would know. He was one of them.

“
Here we are,” the jeweler said, opening a black velvet box and removing a pendant with a long chain. She held it out, as if offering a scepter to a king.

Matt took it.
A diamond-shaped shard of polished steel rested in the pendant’s center, framed by a border of twisted gold, reminiscent of Feinluna’s ornate hilt. The broken sword’s name appeared at the bottom, etched perfectly along the curving frame. It was beautiful.

“
Is that how you wanted it?” the woman asked.

What the fuck am I doing?
Matt thought. He’d been so sure of himself. Spent three gold coins for it. Clay’s coins. Matt had never cashed one until now. He’d thought the gesture sweet, but now, holding the pendant, he doubted his plan. What did he think Luiza would say to a gift like that? It would be like losing a child and having someone fashion their severed finger as a gift to the grieving parent.

“
It’s exactly as I asked for.” Matt forced a smile. “Excellent work.”

The jeweler woman thanked him, then coiled the chain back into its case and placed it into a shiny black paper bag.
Matt walked out, trying to mask his growing dread and headed back to the hotel.

#

After a shower and a change of clothes, Matt found his way to the hotel
’s dining room. His hand rested on the black laptop bag slung over his shoulder. He could feel Dämoren through the padded leather. The Ingram was inside as well, separated by a thin dividing wall. The machinegun’s giant suppressor was too long to fit if attached. Matt had cut the stitching along the side of the bag, creating a narrow gap big enough to get his hand through. He prayed he wouldn’t need it, but if things got bad, he could shove his hand in, and fire Dämoren from inside the case. He could shoot the Ingram, too, if needed, but hot brass bouncing around inside the tight bag with his hand in there sounded more like punishment than a tactical advantage.

Luiza sat at a small table on the far side of the room, her back to the wall.
A long, nylon bag rested beside her, ‘Canon’ embroidered in red along its side. Matt had initially thought any attempts to carry a sword in public would be too noticeable. Of course no one would suspect a katana was inside the tripod cover. They’d suspect a gun, or at least he would have. But after seeing the amount of high-end camera equipment some tourists lugged around, he conceded Akumanokira’s urban camouflage was pretty effective.

“
Took you long enough.” She stirred her tiny cup of coffee.

Matt took a seat.
The bulge from the pendant’s case suddenly felt huge in his pocket. “Sorry.”

“
You just missed the boys. Luc followed Malcolm and Allan to the train station. I think he’s getting restless. When he gets back, Malcolm wants us to go to Sesto.”

Matt rolled his eyes.
“Again?”

She shrugged.
“Several of Anya’s people lived there.”

“
Yeah, two years ago.”

“
Do you have any other ideas?”

“
No.” Matt sighed.

After a waiter came over and filled his coffee, Matt helped himself to the remnants at the buffet table.
He ate quietly as Luiza fidgeted with her tablet computer, marking a map for their day’s journey. A television blathered on from the wall beside him, its volume low enough it wouldn’t disturb any conversations, but too low for anyone actually interested to hear much of anything.

Matt sipped his coffee, his eyes unconsciously moving to the screen
’s flickering colors. The image was of several reporters fighting to get their microphones before a man in a pale blue suit. Lines of forced calmness and sincerity marked the interviewee’s face. The screen changed to a photograph of two green and white buses, ‘Tuscia Tours’ blazoned on their sides in orange and gold. He couldn’t read the foreign words along the side of the screen but, leaning closer, he managed to hear most of the news report over the clinks of silverware and low murmurs from the other diners.

“
Owners first became concerned when the tour failed to return at nine thirty last night,” said the announcer’s voice over. “Neither the driver or guide responded to calls.”

“
You see this?” Matt asked.

“
What?” Luiza asked, looking up from her screen.

“
A local tour bus is missing,” he said, remembering she couldn’t understand Italian. “Tuscan day trip. Supposed to come back last night, but didn’t.”

The image changed again to a map of the Tuscan countryside.
A winding path, highlighted in bright red, followed the roads from Florence to San Gimignano, Siena, and through several little villages.

“
Missing?”

“
Yeah.” Matt leaned closer, straining to hear the announcer’s voice. “Twenty-eight people, including the driver and guide. Says they made it to San Gimignano, but no one knows after that.”

She
snorted. “How can no one know?”

Matt nodded.
“They said the buses all have GPS, but authorities are still trying to get the last coordinates.” The news story ended, changing to a weather update. Matt looked at Luiza. “That might be worth checking into.”

“
A missing tour bus?”

“
You can’t just
lose a bus
. They’re huge. No one on board has made a call? The GPS tracking doesn’t work?”