Read Online Hounacier (Valducan Book 2) by Seth Skorkowsky - Free Book Online
Authors: Seth Skorkowsky
Ads: Link
and continued on. By tomorrow, everyone would know Ulises' pupil had arrived. A vengeful bokor was nothing to take lightly. He passed several antique shops until coming to one, its walls the color of wet terracotta. A suit of archaic armor stood in one of the windows beside a Victorian divan, upholstered in shades of scarlet and cream. "Alpuente's Antiques" it said above the door in golden letters.
He stepped inside, the stink of the city immediately giving way to the aroma of fresh lilies bulging from a blown glass vase atop the counter. Furniture from different eras filled most of the shop's floor space, nestled around dark wood and glass cases, their contents brimming with treasures. Not seeing anyone right off, Malcolm took a step toward the counter. His right wrist began to itch.
His cobalt scarab tattoo shuddered. Three of its legs twitched nervously, as if unsure what to do. The beetle warned him of demons, even in human form. When near the possessed, about ten feet or so, it scuttled around to the side opposite. The only time it had ever moved like this was in France, in the Valducans' chateau.
Malcolm looked around. There. A black stone mask, like a skull or withered face, leered from a support column ahead. Brow furrowed, he stepped closer. A semicircular table rested against the column, making it hard to get too close. He leaned in, gazing at the shriveled eyes nestled deep within their sockets. The scarab shuffled like a child needing to pee, causing the hair on his arms to stand on end.
The Valducans once owned a pair of Oriental jade masks that housed the essence of demonic lions. Ancient, their secrets of creation long since lost, the masks repelled demons, possibly even familiars. He'd never seen them work, but he had witnessed the catastrophic result when those masks were pressed to faces of two of his friends, possessing his Valducan brothers. He'd had to kill them. If this mask was as those, it was powerful. Powerful and dangerous. There was one way to be sure.
Transferring Hounacier's case to his other hand, Malcolm tentatively raised his palm. While the tattoo on his left hand could repel demonic powers, the one in his right could sense energies, sometimes more than he wanted. He winced as the lid parted, revealing the blue iris beneath. Hovering his palm inches from the mask, he closed his eyes.
Hatred. Rage. Withered hands peeling a screaming child's skull like a grapefruit. Crushing blackness, like ice. The sweet taste of a corpse riddled with—
Malcolm yanked his hand back, nearly stumbling into a chair. Gritting his teeth, he released a long breath, fighting nausea. God damned ghoul , he thought. How the hell did it end up in there, and how did Jim get it? Did he have any idea what he had? Rubbing the apprehension from his fingertips, Malcolm flipped over the little white tag hanging from the demon mask.
"Not for Sale."
Looks like he did.
"Can I help you?" a creaky voice asked.
Startled, Malcolm turned to see an old white man sitting in a chair behind the counter, nearly hidden behind the enormous bouquet. A silver haze of hair tufted from the sides of his bald head. A slender air hose looped up over his ears and down below his nose, resting just above a thick moustache.
"Now that piece there isn't for sale," the old man said.
A mulatto woman peered around one of the shelves near the back, her dark curls brushing her shoulders. "There you are."
Malcolm smiled. Aside from her hair, she looked exactly the same. Beautiful. "Hi, Tasha."
She set a carved opium pipe inside the case and closed its wood-framed door. "It's been a while." Tasha turned to the old man, watching them curiously. "Pawpaw, it's Malcolm."
The old man stared at her for a moment then turned to Malcolm, eyes wide. "Mal?"
"Hi, Mister Alpuente."
"Well God damn, son, why didn't you say somethin'?" He winced as he stood up. "Finally cut off that damned hair."
Malcolm grinned. "Yes, sir."
"I liked you better with it."
He stepped inside, the stink of the city immediately giving way to the aroma of fresh lilies bulging from a blown glass vase atop the counter. Furniture from different eras filled most of the shop's floor space, nestled around dark wood and glass cases, their contents brimming with treasures. Not seeing anyone right off, Malcolm took a step toward the counter. His right wrist began to itch.
His cobalt scarab tattoo shuddered. Three of its legs twitched nervously, as if unsure what to do. The beetle warned him of demons, even in human form. When near the possessed, about ten feet or so, it scuttled around to the side opposite. The only time it had ever moved like this was in France, in the Valducans' chateau.
Malcolm looked around. There. A black stone mask, like a skull or withered face, leered from a support column ahead. Brow furrowed, he stepped closer. A semicircular table rested against the column, making it hard to get too close. He leaned in, gazing at the shriveled eyes nestled deep within their sockets. The scarab shuffled like a child needing to pee, causing the hair on his arms to stand on end.
The Valducans once owned a pair of Oriental jade masks that housed the essence of demonic lions. Ancient, their secrets of creation long since lost, the masks repelled demons, possibly even familiars. He'd never seen them work, but he had witnessed the catastrophic result when those masks were pressed to faces of two of his friends, possessing his Valducan brothers. He'd had to kill them. If this mask was as those, it was powerful. Powerful and dangerous. There was one way to be sure.
Transferring Hounacier's case to his other hand, Malcolm tentatively raised his palm. While the tattoo on his left hand could repel demonic powers, the one in his right could sense energies, sometimes more than he wanted. He winced as the lid parted, revealing the blue iris beneath. Hovering his palm inches from the mask, he closed his eyes.
Hatred. Rage. Withered hands peeling a screaming child's skull like a grapefruit. Crushing blackness, like ice. The sweet taste of a corpse riddled with—
Malcolm yanked his hand back, nearly stumbling into a chair. Gritting his teeth, he released a long breath, fighting nausea. God damned ghoul , he thought. How the hell did it end up in there, and how did Jim get it? Did he have any idea what he had? Rubbing the apprehension from his fingertips, Malcolm flipped over the little white tag hanging from the demon mask.
"Not for Sale."
Looks like he did.
"Can I help you?" a creaky voice asked.
Startled, Malcolm turned to see an old white man sitting in a chair behind the counter, nearly hidden behind the enormous bouquet. A silver haze of hair tufted from the sides of his bald head. A slender air hose looped up over his ears and down below his nose, resting just above a thick moustache.
"Now that piece there isn't for sale," the old man said.
A mulatto woman peered around one of the shelves near the back, her dark curls brushing her shoulders. "There you are."
Malcolm smiled. Aside from her hair, she looked exactly the same. Beautiful. "Hi, Tasha."
She set a carved opium pipe inside the case and closed its wood-framed door. "It's been a while." Tasha turned to the old man, watching them curiously. "Pawpaw, it's Malcolm."
The old man stared at her for a moment then turned to Malcolm, eyes wide. "Mal?"
"Hi, Mister Alpuente."
"Well God damn, son, why didn't you say somethin'?" He winced as he stood up. "Finally cut off that damned hair."
Malcolm grinned. "Yes, sir."
"I liked you better with it."
Similar Books
It's Always Darkest Before the Fridge Door Opens: Enjoying the Fruits of Middle Age
Phil Callaway, Martha O. Bolton
