We were in a room with no way out, trapped and waiting there, all nice and pretty like a little Hunter prize for the demonic masses. We needed out of that room, and as far as I could tell, the only way out was through that wall.
“Here goes nothing,” I said, then slammed my left palm against the jagged piece of metal. I remember ignoring the way my palm burned and throbbed, interested only in the wall. I don’t know what I’d expected to happen, but I had definitely expected something. All I got, though, was a big fat nothing.
“There’s more,” Eric had said. “An incantation, maybe.”
"I could try ’pretty please,’” I said testily, "but I don’t think it’ll work.”
Eric shot me a withering look. “Try pressing your palm against the mark.”
I glanced at him, then quickly looked away, not wanting him to see my hesitation. I was being foolish and superstitious. I’d heard story after story about Demon Hunters in the throes of battle. I’d drafted fifty-page research papers on battle techniques. I’d read biographies of the most famous Hunters going back to the Middle Ages, even before.
And in all of that, the only time I ever got queasy was when a Hunter’s soul was tainted. When faith faltered and a hint of darkness edged inside. That was the stuff of my nightmares, the images that had me waking up even before matins.
The thoughts that haunted me still today.
And even though I knew—really knew —that no demon was going to enter through my blood simply by touching the mark of the beast that I intended to battle, I couldn’t stop the foolish, cold chill that ran through me.
Even so, I did it. I tempted fate, ignored my superstitions, and pressed my hand against the demon’s mark.
All that—and not a damn thing happened. Except, of course, the demons drew closer.
We turned to fight, and it was only an afterthought that made me suggest that we try Eric’s blood, too. I don’t really know what I expected, but he sliced his palm as I had, then cupped it over the skull etched with the mark of the demon. For a moment, nothing changed. Then a low groan split the silence, as if the world itself were being rent apart.
The wall was dissolving—the portal into the ritual chamber opening.
Not fast enough, however. Because before we could enter the chamber and stop Abaddon, we had to battle the approaching demonic minions. And that, I have to say, had been one hell of a fight. With two against dozens, we’d come near to being killed more times than I could count. More than that, we’d lost the stone when it had tumbled into a dark crevice that only moments before had swallowed a demon whole.
The loss of the demon had been a cause to celebrate. The loss of the stone? Not so much.
Though we’d lost our primary weapon, we were determined to soldier on, convinced by youth or hubris that we would somehow find a way to prevail. Fear and fury drove us, and somehow, we managed to battle our way through the now-open doorway. And the moment we stepped over the threshold, we were free. The demons didn’t follow, instead waiting like lap-dogs on the other side, watching for their master.
Watching and waiting for him to come and destroy us. Or, at least, to try.
Six
I Shivered, Standing by the window in that dimly lit room overlooking the San Diablo cemetery. I hugged myself, the walls of the Greatwater mansion seeming to press in against me as much as the memories.
I could still recall the damp chill that filled the air, along with the orange glow that permeated the cavernous room into which Eric and I had stepped. The glow came from seven pedestals that lined the circular room, each topped with a bowl of oil, burning bright. A huge brass urn stood in the center of room, with six heavy chains hanging immediately above it. Of the chains, four disappeared into the urn’s depths. The last two hung about three inches above the lip of the vessel.
An ornate tapestry hung
“Here goes nothing,” I said, then slammed my left palm against the jagged piece of metal. I remember ignoring the way my palm burned and throbbed, interested only in the wall. I don’t know what I’d expected to happen, but I had definitely expected something. All I got, though, was a big fat nothing.
“There’s more,” Eric had said. “An incantation, maybe.”
"I could try ’pretty please,’” I said testily, "but I don’t think it’ll work.”
Eric shot me a withering look. “Try pressing your palm against the mark.”
I glanced at him, then quickly looked away, not wanting him to see my hesitation. I was being foolish and superstitious. I’d heard story after story about Demon Hunters in the throes of battle. I’d drafted fifty-page research papers on battle techniques. I’d read biographies of the most famous Hunters going back to the Middle Ages, even before.
And in all of that, the only time I ever got queasy was when a Hunter’s soul was tainted. When faith faltered and a hint of darkness edged inside. That was the stuff of my nightmares, the images that had me waking up even before matins.
The thoughts that haunted me still today.
And even though I knew—really knew —that no demon was going to enter through my blood simply by touching the mark of the beast that I intended to battle, I couldn’t stop the foolish, cold chill that ran through me.
Even so, I did it. I tempted fate, ignored my superstitions, and pressed my hand against the demon’s mark.
All that—and not a damn thing happened. Except, of course, the demons drew closer.
We turned to fight, and it was only an afterthought that made me suggest that we try Eric’s blood, too. I don’t really know what I expected, but he sliced his palm as I had, then cupped it over the skull etched with the mark of the demon. For a moment, nothing changed. Then a low groan split the silence, as if the world itself were being rent apart.
The wall was dissolving—the portal into the ritual chamber opening.
Not fast enough, however. Because before we could enter the chamber and stop Abaddon, we had to battle the approaching demonic minions. And that, I have to say, had been one hell of a fight. With two against dozens, we’d come near to being killed more times than I could count. More than that, we’d lost the stone when it had tumbled into a dark crevice that only moments before had swallowed a demon whole.
The loss of the demon had been a cause to celebrate. The loss of the stone? Not so much.
Though we’d lost our primary weapon, we were determined to soldier on, convinced by youth or hubris that we would somehow find a way to prevail. Fear and fury drove us, and somehow, we managed to battle our way through the now-open doorway. And the moment we stepped over the threshold, we were free. The demons didn’t follow, instead waiting like lap-dogs on the other side, watching for their master.
Watching and waiting for him to come and destroy us. Or, at least, to try.
Six
I Shivered, Standing by the window in that dimly lit room overlooking the San Diablo cemetery. I hugged myself, the walls of the Greatwater mansion seeming to press in against me as much as the memories.
I could still recall the damp chill that filled the air, along with the orange glow that permeated the cavernous room into which Eric and I had stepped. The glow came from seven pedestals that lined the circular room, each topped with a bowl of oil, burning bright. A huge brass urn stood in the center of room, with six heavy chains hanging immediately above it. Of the chains, four disappeared into the urn’s depths. The last two hung about three inches above the lip of the vessel.
An ornate tapestry hung
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