murdered in his home. His house was ransacked, and his head was missing. Police had no suspects.
Malcolm, however, did have a suspect. Tiamat's cultists, the ones who had killed dozens of his fellow hunters and their holy weapons, had taken the heads of any knights they hadn't offered as sacrifice. Hounacier had helped kill their god. This reeked of retribution.
Ulises' two last emails had been brief. They always were.
Malcolm, you need to come home. There's something you must see.
Ulises
The other simply said, "Call me," and his phone number.
Malcolm had messaged the Valducans what he knew. Ulises was never a Valducan, but he was a hunter. An attack on one was still an attack on all. The full strength of the Order would come down on who or what had murdered him.
#
The balmy stink of humidity rot, diesel fumes, and urine greeted Malcolm as he stepped off the bus. He breathed deep, savoring the all-too-familiar smell. It carried memories. Some bad, most good.
An unwashed woman, her face speckled with tiny scabs, sauntered past, pushing a yellowed stroller piled with bags. New Orleans held its own special breed of homeless residents. The city was a magnet for demonic energy, and many former familiars, their masters long dead, were drawn here as well. Most never knew why they felt the calling. A few managed seemingly normal lives. The rest were simply insane. Junkies looking for a fix they didn't know or understand. San Francisco was the same way.
He booked a room at a hotel on Canal Street. Not knowing how long his stay would be, he paid cash for the first week. The clerk, a pretty girl with a tattoo of an eagle on her neck and about ten pounds of braids piled atop her head, didn't seem the least put out when Malcolm didn't give her any ID.
"That'll require a two-hundred-dollar security deposit," she said, her perfectly sculpted brow sharply arched.
Malcolm handed her the money, took his plastic pass-card, and headed up to the third floor. Room 318 smelled of cheap potpourri spray and old cigarettes. He removed a photograph of himself, Nick, and Colin grinning outside Notre Dame Cathedral. Out of the three knights, Malcolm was the only one still alive. He propped it up on the bedside table, making sure it faced both the door to the hall and to the adjoining room. A tiny motion sensor hidden in the grooved frame would activate a micro-camera and notify his phone. The unit itself was worth more than anything else Malcolm planned to leave unattended, but theft wasn't what concerned him.
After a quick shower to wash off the bus film, Malcolm changed the bandage on his left forearm. What little scarring the razor-sharp blade left would soon be concealed beneath a new tattoo. Three golden lines, their ends tapered to points. It bothered him that Hounacier kept trying to place her blessing on his face. The eyes on his palms were difficult enough to conceal. Either she didn't understand the social issues a facial tattoo would cause, or she simply didn't care. The marks were his gifts, like medals or merit badges, tokens celebrating special kills, each one bestowing a power. His first demon kill marked his left palm: the warding eye. A triple-kill earned him his blue scarab. A jorogumo's fire gave him stamina. Whatever the mist cat's death would bestow, Malcolm didn't know. First, he needed to find an artist, one who worked in the old way. Maybe AJ was still in New Orleans. She'd inked two of his marks before.
Once dressed, Malcolm picked up the brown guitar case with his Remington and Hounacier strapped inside and headed out.
He made his way to the Quarter. The drone of traffic calmed, gradually replaced by music. An enormous accordion player sat shoehorned into a wheelchair, his plump fingers gliding across the keyboard. Eyes hidden behind neon green sunglasses, the musician smiled as Malcolm passed.
Parked cars cluttered one side of the street, leaving little room for drivers. The wall of vehicles, combined with the
Malcolm, however, did have a suspect. Tiamat's cultists, the ones who had killed dozens of his fellow hunters and their holy weapons, had taken the heads of any knights they hadn't offered as sacrifice. Hounacier had helped kill their god. This reeked of retribution.
Ulises' two last emails had been brief. They always were.
Malcolm, you need to come home. There's something you must see.
Ulises
The other simply said, "Call me," and his phone number.
Malcolm had messaged the Valducans what he knew. Ulises was never a Valducan, but he was a hunter. An attack on one was still an attack on all. The full strength of the Order would come down on who or what had murdered him.
#
The balmy stink of humidity rot, diesel fumes, and urine greeted Malcolm as he stepped off the bus. He breathed deep, savoring the all-too-familiar smell. It carried memories. Some bad, most good.
An unwashed woman, her face speckled with tiny scabs, sauntered past, pushing a yellowed stroller piled with bags. New Orleans held its own special breed of homeless residents. The city was a magnet for demonic energy, and many former familiars, their masters long dead, were drawn here as well. Most never knew why they felt the calling. A few managed seemingly normal lives. The rest were simply insane. Junkies looking for a fix they didn't know or understand. San Francisco was the same way.
He booked a room at a hotel on Canal Street. Not knowing how long his stay would be, he paid cash for the first week. The clerk, a pretty girl with a tattoo of an eagle on her neck and about ten pounds of braids piled atop her head, didn't seem the least put out when Malcolm didn't give her any ID.
"That'll require a two-hundred-dollar security deposit," she said, her perfectly sculpted brow sharply arched.
Malcolm handed her the money, took his plastic pass-card, and headed up to the third floor. Room 318 smelled of cheap potpourri spray and old cigarettes. He removed a photograph of himself, Nick, and Colin grinning outside Notre Dame Cathedral. Out of the three knights, Malcolm was the only one still alive. He propped it up on the bedside table, making sure it faced both the door to the hall and to the adjoining room. A tiny motion sensor hidden in the grooved frame would activate a micro-camera and notify his phone. The unit itself was worth more than anything else Malcolm planned to leave unattended, but theft wasn't what concerned him.
After a quick shower to wash off the bus film, Malcolm changed the bandage on his left forearm. What little scarring the razor-sharp blade left would soon be concealed beneath a new tattoo. Three golden lines, their ends tapered to points. It bothered him that Hounacier kept trying to place her blessing on his face. The eyes on his palms were difficult enough to conceal. Either she didn't understand the social issues a facial tattoo would cause, or she simply didn't care. The marks were his gifts, like medals or merit badges, tokens celebrating special kills, each one bestowing a power. His first demon kill marked his left palm: the warding eye. A triple-kill earned him his blue scarab. A jorogumo's fire gave him stamina. Whatever the mist cat's death would bestow, Malcolm didn't know. First, he needed to find an artist, one who worked in the old way. Maybe AJ was still in New Orleans. She'd inked two of his marks before.
Once dressed, Malcolm picked up the brown guitar case with his Remington and Hounacier strapped inside and headed out.
He made his way to the Quarter. The drone of traffic calmed, gradually replaced by music. An enormous accordion player sat shoehorned into a wheelchair, his plump fingers gliding across the keyboard. Eyes hidden behind neon green sunglasses, the musician smiled as Malcolm passed.
Parked cars cluttered one side of the street, leaving little room for drivers. The wall of vehicles, combined with the
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