Death's Hand, A Dark Urban Fantasy Read online

  Books by SM Reine:

  Six Moon Summer

  All Hallows’ Moon

  Long Night Moon (Spring 2012)

  Gray Moon Rising (Summer 2012)

  Death’s Hand

  The Darkest Gate (Spring 2012)

  Damnation Marked (Summer 2012)

  The 19 Dragons

  Shattered (2012)

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  DEATH’S HAND

  Copyright © SM Reine, 2011

  Published by Red Iris Books

  ISBN-13: 978-1-937733-00-1

  ISBN-10: 1-937733-01-7

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book, or any portions thereof, in any form.

  SM Reine

  Website: http://smreine.com/

  Email: [email protected]

  Twitter: @smreine

  Interior and cover design by SM Reine.

  Part One: Before

  February 1998

  James spotted a splatter of blood through the tree boughs. It marked the snow like an ink stain on paper.

  He pushed through the pine needles, and her bare feet appeared, blue-toed and limp. He saw the curve of a calf and a knobby, bruised knee. He saw the jut of ribs under her skin and an arm thrown over her face. And the next thing he saw was the twelve other bodies.

  Nausea gripped James, but he covered his mouth and maintained composure. His guide was not so lucky. The other man dove behind a bush, gagged twice, and vomited across the frozen earth.

  Elise was already dead. He was so certain of it that he almost walked away at that moment. But what would Isaac think of James abandoning his daughter’s body? The indignity of leaving her naked on the ice for the birds to devour was too much, and he came so far to find her remains.

  Yet he couldn’t bring himself to step foot in the clearing. Elise looked peaceful, but the others were twisted in agony. Blood marked their fingernails. They had gone out fighting.

  Each of the twelve other bodies could have been siblings. They had pale skin and white-blue eyes—he could tell, because they were frozen open—and slender forms draped in white linen. The snow around them looked fluffy, as though it were freshly fallen. Something about that struck him as wrong. It was cold, but it hadn’t snowed in days, leaving the earth a solid sheet of ice.

  Taking a closer look, James found it wasn’t snow—the clearing was covered in feathers.

  His guide had recovered and began babbling in Russian, but he spoke too fast for James to understand. He heard one recognizable word—chort, devil.

  James hung back in the trees, fighting the urge to leave. Nobody in Oymyakon needed to know what he found in the forest. His guide wouldn’t discuss their trip with anyone else. It could remain a secret.

  No. Someone would find out. They always did.

  He adjusted his balaclava, tuned out the guide’s shouts, and stepped into the clearing.

  The hair lifted on his arms. His skull began to buzz.

  He tried not to look at the other corpses, but it was like they reached for him, pleading for escape. Their teeth were bared. Their tongues were purple and twisted.

  That one had been stabbed in the chest.

  The body by his feet was disemboweled.

  Those two bodies had died clutching hands.

  He couldn’t look at them anymore. He focused on his feet and forced himself to take a step once, twice. Again and again. When he reached Elise, the buzzing grew so loud that he could no longer hear Maksim’s protests.

  James hovered a glove over her body. All the energy vanished. The clearing went silent.

  He pushed the arm off her face to examine her. Dirty, frayed bandages were wrapped around her hands, so tattered that they looked like they might blow away.

  Elise had her father’s auburn hair and his strong nose, but her soft chin belonged entirely to Ariane. Her eyelashes were sealed by ice. How had she died? There wasn’t a mark he could see.

  He moved to unwrap one of her hands.

  Her eyes fluttered.

  “Maksim!” he shouted. Her broad lips parted to exhale silver fog. “Maksim! She’s alive!” He forgot to speak in Russian, but his message didn’t need translation.

  His guide shouted and ran to the van. James shed his parka. The cold seeped through his undercoat as he wrapped her in his furs. Alive. It was impossible. Nobody could have survived an hour naked in the killing frosts of Siberian spring.

  James watched the other bodies, waiting for them to jerk to life and creep forward, but they remained lifeless. Elise was the only survivor, even though it was impossible for one small girl to have survived an attack that killed a dozen others.

  Unless she had been the one to do the killing.

  He carried her out of the clearing without touching the other bodies. There was nothing he could do for them. He wasn’t sure he would have anyway.

  The guide opened the van, letting steam escape the back end. As soon as James climbed inside, laying Elise between their extra gas tanks and a rattling space heater, he closed the doors again.

  “Hurry!” James said, reverting to his limited Russian.

  “She’s a demon,” repeated Maksim as he climbed to the driver’s seat, and then he continued to speak so quickly that James couldn’t understand if he tried. He picked up a word here and there—devils and hell, curses and fear—but he was too busy to translate. He cracked heating packs open and pressed them to Elise’s underarms, her groin, and the back of her neck.

  James pulled a glove off with his teeth and touched his bare fingers to her throat. Her pulse was slow but steady. Color began to flush her cheeks.

  A demon, Maksim said. Maybe. But she was also Isaac and Ariane’s daughter, and James promised to bring her back safely. He kept all of his oaths, no matter how unpleasant.

  His driver shouted and gestured. James interrupted him to say, “Town. Take us to town!”

  The van bounced and groaned over the path. He had to brace his back against the fuel canisters to keep them from falling on Elise as he searched her body. He found nothing. Aside from a few bruises, she was unharmed.

  Surely a girl that young couldn’t have killed so many people without injury. There must have been someone else in the wilds—someone he hadn’t seen. It wasn’t a comforting thought.

  He peeled the bandages off and flipped her hands to look at the palms.

  No.

  James turned her hands over again, heart racing.

  It was the first time James wished Elise had died on the tundra, but it was also far from the last.

  December 1988

  Isaac Kavanagh gave his daughter a pair of twin falchion swords for her seventh birthday. Wickedly sharp and too big for her hands, Elise accepted them with a grave nod before turning to kill her first demon.

  She skewered it. The demon shrieked and wailed.

  “Good,” Isaac said with a proud smile. “Very good.”

  Later, they will say this day marked the beginning of the end of the world.

  (This is only half true.)

  Part Two: Sacrifice

  I

  May 2009

  Steam drifted from the surface of Marisa Ramirez’s coffee. She blew on it gently, cupping the mug between her hands to warm her chilly fingers. Golden morning light rimmed the closed curtains over the sink. The thermometer outside the window read sixty-six. The swamp cooler clicked on and blew chilled air into the kitchen. Marisa shrank deeper into her sweater.

  Augustin Ramirez sat across the
table with his face in his hands. The ceiling rattled above their heads as distant screams and sobs peaked in time with fists pounding against the floor.

  His left cheek muscle twitched. They exchanged glances, and he found his own haunted expression mirrored in her face.

  Hands shaking, she lifted her coffee cup and took a sip.

  The doorbell chimed. Their daughter shrieked in response.

  “Are you going to get that?” Augustin asked. Marisa didn't respond. His jaw tightened. “I said, are you going to get that?” She ducked her head, lips trembling. The right side of her mouth was darkened with the shadow of a bruise. He made a disgusted noise, shoving his chair back as he stood. “Fine. I'll get the door.”

  She took another drink and set the mug down.

  The living room blinds were shut and covered by heavy curtains, casting the room in twilight. Augustin navigated to the door by memory, unlocked the dead bolt, peeked through the door.

  The woman on the other side pushed her sunglasses into her hair to study him with narrowed eyes. A single scar broke the line of her right eyebrow.

  “Augustin Ramirez. Right?”

  “Yes,” he said. “I'm sorry... do I know you?”

  She held out a hand. She wore black gloves with a button at the wrist. “Elise Kavanagh. James sent me.”

  He gave her hand a brief shake. Her grip made his knuckles ache. “James Faulkner?” Augustin asked. “He said he was going to send a—uh, an exorcist to look at our daughter.”

  Elise nodded. “Yes, right. I'm the exorcist.”

  “You're not what I... that is to say...”

  “Yeah, I know. Can I come in?”

  “Yes,” Augustin said, stepping aside.

  “I'm sorry I'm late. I was on my way to the office, and I wasn't expecting James to ask me to do a job. I haven't been an exorcist in a long time.” She indicated her outfit with a sweep of her hand—a black skirt, white blouse, and black blazer. Augustin wasn’t sure what he expected an exorcist to wear. Maybe leather and chains. Definitely not business casual.

  She handed a business card to him. Elise Kavanagh, Certified Public Accountant. It was so absurd he had to laugh. “So you used to exorcise people a lot?”

  “More often than I do now,” Elise said. “I went into retirement five years ago. Anyway, I'm not going to exorcise your daughter. I'm going to determine if it’s demonic possession.”

  “Demonic possession,” he echoed. “You have me at a loss. Frankly, this all seems a little... absurd.”

  She gave a humorless, thin-lipped smile that might have been a grimace.

  “You're here,” Marisa said. She hovered in the doorway, arms wrapped around her shivering body. “I'm so glad you came.”

  Augustin frowned. “You know this woman?”

  “She's always at the coven meetings,” Marisa said. Her voice trembled slightly. “I think she does James’s accounting. And he told me they’re, uh, bound. Kopis and aspis.”

  “What?”

  Her cheeks colored. “It’s Latin.”

  “Greek, actually,” Elise said. “Kopis means sword, and aspis means shield. It means I am—or used to be—a warrior against the forces of Hell, and he’s my partner.” She wasn’t laughing at all. She was completely serious.

  Distaste twisted Augustin’s mouth. “Coven nonsense. It's taken me awhile to get used to the idea of witchcraft in the first place, and I don’t think—”

  Elise held up a hand. “I have places to be. I don't have the time to let you get used to it, Mr. Ramirez.”

  His face grew hot. “I'm not—”

  “Augustin,” Marisa said softly.

  He closed his eyes and took a breath. Their marriage counselor harped on him about counting to ten when he was getting to mad, but he gave it to twenty this time. Covens and “warriors against Hell.” He could count to a thousand and still feel unsettled.

  “Sorry,” Augustin finally said. “We're stressed.”

  Elise accepted his apology by inclining her head. “Where's Lucinde?”

  “She's upstairs. We'll go with you.”

  Marisa and Elise headed up the stairs. Augustin followed a couple steps behind, watching the legs of the supposed exorcist. She wasn’t wearing nylons. Another scar marred her ankle, like a dog bite that had long since healed into a fleshy white mass, and his stomach turned. Some accountant.

  Elise spoke to Marisa as they walked, oblivious to the reaction her scars evoked. “I need to ask you some questions. Have you summoned any demons or used a Ouija board?”

  “Of course not.”

  “Any unusual noises or sightings? Animals with glowing eyes, objects flying across the room, strange noises on the telephone...”

  Marisa shook her head. “Aside from Lucinde's illness, everything has been normal.”

  “What about nightmares? Have you experienced sexual dreams of a dark nature?”

  “That's a personal question,” Augustin interrupted.

  Elise’s lip curled, but she didn’t respond.

  “I haven't,” Marisa said. Her voice was hardly louder than a whisper. “Augustin?” After a moment, he shook his head. “Lucinde was having nightmares before. Not... sexual. But she kept waking up screaming.”

  “Did she tell you what she was dreaming about?” Elise stopped to peer at a family camping photo beside an artful arrangement of silk flowers. In the picture, the Ramirezes were tan and smiling. Lucinde’s low, croaking moans echoed through the house.

  “She told me a monster was eating her heart,” Marisa whispered. “I thought... I mean, what a strange thing for a little girl to dream about. She dreamed a monster ate her heart and sat in her chest.”

  Elise's eyebrows lifted. “Really.”

  “It's not weird for her to have bad dreams,” Augustin interjected. “Especially not about her heart. She has a condition. The doctors don't think it should be fatal, but you know how kids are. Of course she's scared of bad things happening to her heart.”

  “What kind of heart condition?” They reached the top of the stairs, pausing down the hall from Lucinde's room. All the doors were open but hers.

  “I don't think you need to know that to do your job,” Augustin said.

  “Just wondering. I assume you’ve already taken her to see a doctor and a psychologist?”

  “Those were our first choices. They gave us the option of waiting to see if she would improve or sticking her in an institution. I wouldn’t have let Marisa call you unless we didn’t have any choices left.”

  “I see. I’m going to go in and look at her now.”

  “Be careful. She's gotten… violent,” Marisa said.

  “How violent can a five-year-old be?” Elise gave an unpleasant smile that didn’t suit her angular face. “I’m sure I’ve handled worse.”

  “Just be careful. She's in here.”

  Elise approached the door Marisa indicated, and the Ramirezes hung back. The girl became quieter as she grew near. When she stood before the door, Lucinde became entirely silent.

  Elise pushed the door open and went inside.

  Lucinde’s room was even colder than the rest of the house. Heavy curtains cast the room in near-complete darkness, and a portable swamp cooler made the air chill and muggy. A white canopy bed blocked the back half of the darkened room.

  There were multiple obstacles strewn across the floor: an overstuffed comforter, rose-colored pillows in varying sizes, and a toy chest. Possible hiding places included the closet and the shadowed area behind a pink trunk with princess costumes draped over the sides. No girl in sight.

  Elise didn’t like the room’s poor visibility. It felt confined. Dangerous. “I’m going to open the window, Marisa.”

  “She won't like it.”

  She moved toward the window, hugging the wall, and stepped over a toy unicorn with blood caking the mane to its neck. Ears perked for any hint of motion, she jerked aside the first layer of curtains, then the second.

  Light filled the ro
om. Someone squealed.

  Elise rounded the bed in time to see bare feet disappearing under the bed. “Lucinde?”

  She dropped to her hands and knees and leaned her cheek close to the carpet. A pair of luminous eyes stared back at her. The girl under the bed looked nothing like Marisa. Her skin was dark, like her father's, and her flat nose was offset by his same expressive lips.

  “Cold,” she hissed. “Cold!”

  Elise's gaze traveled over her bared legs. Her knees were heavily bruised, purple and black and brown on the edges. The flesh on her shins looked like broiled strawberries. “Have you used force to restrain her?” Elise asked.

  “She hurts herself,” Marisa said. “We can't stop her.”

  “Colder!” Lucinde demanded again, sinking further into the corner as though she wanted to hide inside the wall. Elise glanced at the swamp cooler. Colder.

  Lucinde tried to jerk away when she touched her foot, but Elise caught her ankle, pulling her foot into the light. A few remaining flakes of pink nail polish decorated her toenails under caked blood. One nail had been torn out. She released the child’s ankle, and withdrew again.

  “How are you doing?” Elise asked. “Quomondo vales?”

  Lucinde froze. Her eyes widened fractionally.

  “Quomondo vales?” she repeated. “Loquerisne Latine? No? ¿Hablas inglés?”

  “She speaks English,” Marisa said, offended.

  “Of course.”

  Elise pulled the chains of her necklace over head and picked a bronze pendant from amongst the other charms. It caught the sun and scattered gold light on Lucinde’s forehead. The whites of her eyes were almost yellow, shot through with crimson veins, and a long, low hiss issued from between her lips.

  “Crux sacra sit mihi lux,” Elise whispered. Lucinde recoiled, covering her face.

  “What are you doing?” Augustin demanded.

  Lucinde remained flat against the carpet, fingers spread through the dusty shag as though she feared being dragged away. She whimpered like a wounded dog.